


Counterpunch

by Adoxography



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Case-Fic (-ish), Established Relationship, Fuck Or Die, Heed the tags please, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Robots Getting Hacked, Underground Fighting Ring, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18913639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: On loan to another precinct, Connor is introduced to a series of Missing Persons cases, all relating to androids. Connor’s interest in the case quickly becomes personal but pursuing it could be deadly for everyone involved.





	1. Missing Persons

**Author's Note:**

> My incredible Beta [Shell_and_Bone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell_and_bone) has been utterly invaluable in encouraging me to put this all together. I was excited at the prospect of writing case-fic for DBH and at exploring the post-best ending world and Connor’s place in it. Please heed the tags. I’ll warn for any triggering content in individual chapters but just be forewarned that there are some themes explored in this fic related to android autonomy and personhood that might be uncomfortable for some readers.

Hank’s beard tickled Connor’s neck as he planted open mouthed kisses to the line of his  throat. His erection dug into Connor’s thigh and dragged across the smooth flesh as he thrust against him. Connor wrapped willing arms around Hank’s shoulders, even as he chastised, “We’re going to be late.” 

Hank glanced over at the clock and then back at Connor. He shrugged and his lips found Connor’s collarbone, his chest, his shoulder. His hands ran down Connor’s sides, gripping his hips and tugging him closer so he could grind his erection into the junction between Connor’s thigh and his smooth groin. 

“Gimmie your hand,” Hank ordered, his voice low and gravely. Connor obliged, a thrill running through his core, knowing what would come next. 

Hank popped Connor’s index and middle fingers in his mouth, scraping his teeth along the sensitive fingertips. Connor’s voicebox stuttered with pleasure as he tried and failed to cry Hank’s name. 

Connor’s internal clock told him it was already 8:15 and if they were going to have a chance at making it to the station on time, this would have to end quickly, though he was reluctant to finish so soon. He and Hank had discovered a number of ways that Connor could feel pleasure though he had nothing resembling human genitalia, and it was an exploration they were both eager to continue. But not forty-five minutes before their shift was set to start. 

Using his superior strength, Connor rolled Hank onto his back, pinning him down to the mattress. Hank grinned, eyebrows raised as Connor slid down his chest until his mouth hovered inches away from Hank’s groin. Making sure he could make eye contact with Hank, he let his tongue loll out of his mouth to lick a wet, lazy stripe up the underside of Hank’s— 

_ “Cock,”  _ Hank supplied in his head.  _ “Or dick. Just… not penis, okay? Or anything flowery like ‘manhood’ or ‘member’. It’s just not sexy.”  _ Connor, of course, had had questions, but Hank had waved them away, embarrassed, and Connor was loathe to press the issue when there were so many better ways he could learn about what Hank found  _ sexy.  _

The weight of it on his tongue flooded his sensors with information. Salt, sweat, DNA, it all read  _ Hank _ . His mind was filled with Hank, data catalogued and stored for no other reason than to have a part of him inside him always. There was also the way the over-sensitive sensors on his tongue sent spikes of pleasurable feedback to his processor. 

He didn’t  _ have  _ to make noise during sex, but he found Hank enjoyed knowing exactly what he did to Connor—and Connor was happy to oblige—so he pushed a low moan out of his throat, letting the sound vibrate in his mouth. Hank gasped, and grabbed a fistful of Connor’s hair, not forcing him down, simply holding him in place. Connor kept Hank swallowed down but moaned again, this time wrapping his tongue around him. Hank’s hips bucked up, slamming his cock against the back of Connor’s throat. It felt good back there, too, different than the sensations on his tongue, the pressure of an intrusion that was never meant to be made. It made Connor feel rebellious, deviant. 

With no need to breathe, he could bury his nose in Hank’s wiry pubic hair and let his tongue do the work his throat could not. His own pleasure built along with Hank’s and he peaked as Hank ejaculated in his mouth. The slick texture of his semen contrasted with the weight of his cock was enough to completely overwhelm Connor’s sensors. His body shuddered as a wave of electricity ran through his body, numbing and then restarting every single one of his sensors in a violent burst. 

He came to moments later with his head pillowed on Hank’s thigh. Hank had sat up and was running fingers through his hair. His internal clock told him it was 8:30 and they were going to be late, but Hank certainly wouldn’t care and as long as they arrived before noon, he was sure Captain Fowler would not reprimand them too harshly. 

* * *

 

They arrived only fifteen minutes after nine, Hank’s hair still wet from his shower. The moment they arrived in the bullpen, Captain Fowler leaned his head out of his office and shouted, “Anderson! Connor! In here now!” 

Connor looked to Hank for answers when a quick scan of both his and Hank’s incoming email gave him no clue to the nature of the meeting. Hank just shrugged and trudged up the stairs to Fowler’s office. 

“Jesus, Jeff, let a man have a cup of coffee before you start yelling,” Hank groaned, leaning against the glass wall beside the door. In one of the chairs in front of Fowler’s desk sat a woman Connor was not familiar with. Connor wasn’t able to scan her until she turned her head to glance at them, her mouth a thin, irritated line. 

Detective Shayla Guerrero, of the Eighth Precinct. Date of birth, July 14th, 2005–Connor would have to wish her a happy birthday tomorrow if he saw her. Two articles popped up as relevant, one relating to a series of arrests made by Detective Guerrero three years ago, shutting down a human trafficking ring, and another from this year where she was photographed at the high school graduation of one of the teenagers she’d helped recover. 

“Where the hell have you two been? I thought Connor had you on the straight and narrow,” Fowler growled, arms folded across his chest. 

“Bad traffic,” said Hank before Connor could open his mouth to reply. “Didn’t think you’d notice.” 

Captain Fowler’s eye twitched and Connor could tell he was getting ready for a tirade. Connor stepped over to the desk to circumvent any further shouting. 

“Detective Guerrero,” said Connor, smiling and extending his hand to their guest. “My name is Connor. I’m Lieutenant Anderson’s partner.” 

Detective Guerrero took his hand with a firm grip. She didn’t smile, but the tension in her back eased somewhat. She had a serious face, with lines under her eyes that made her look closer to forty than thirty-three. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the back of her head and she wore a dark grey pantsuit, a black blouse tucked into her belt. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” 

Connor looked at Hank, flicking his eyes between him and the Detective until Hank sighed and pushed himself off the wall. He extended his hand to Detective Guerrero who took it after an almost imperceptible moment of hesitation. 

“Lieutenant Anderson,” said Hank.

“Connor, you’re on loan to Detective Guerrero for the day,” said Fowler. “The case file should be arriving in your inbox in the next few minutes.” 

Hank’s hand slammed down on Captain Fowler’s desk. “The fuck is that supposed to mean!?” Hank shouted. “In case you forgot, Connor’s not just a piece of equipment you can pass around like the office stapler.” 

“‘I’m fully aware,” Fowler snapped, glaring up at Hank. “This is no different than loaning out any other officer to another precinct, so be professional for once and quit acting like a jealous girlfriend.” 

Whether or not Fowler knew for certain he and Hank were currently in a relationship was unlikely. He and Hank kept a low profile at work to avoid accusations of unprofessional conduct, and to avoid be assigned different partners. Connor reached out and put a hand on Hank’s shoulder, offering him a reassuring smile. “It’s alright, Hank. I’m happy to help.” 

“‘Course you are,” Hank grumbled, eyes still narrowed at Captain Fowler. “Your brown-nosing program must be working overtime right now.” 

Detective Guerrero raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching up in quickly suppressed amusement. It was then that the case file arrived in Connor’s inbox and a quick scan of the contents explained the need for his assistance. 

“Don’t forget to check in with Detective Reed on the convenience store robbery. The court order for the surveillance footage comes in today and if the perpetrator was an android, we’ll have to take over.” Connor gave Hank’s shoulder a final squeeze before letting go. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank replied. “I’m sure Reed will be sorry to miss you.” 

“I’ll see you at home, Lieutenant.” Connor turned his attention to Detective Guerrero. “I’ve reviewed the case file. I think you can fill me in on any pertinent details in the car.” 

Detective Guerrero blinked, startled, then nodded. “Alright.” She turned to Captain Fowler, offering her hand for a final handshake. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Fowler. And thank you, Lieutenant Anderson, for graciously loaning me your partner.” 

Hank’s nostrils flared, but Connor silenced him with a small shake of his head, smiling when Hank even offered his hand to her. 

“If you’re not home by six, I’m ordering pizza,” said Hank over Detective Guerrero’s shoulder. 

Connor hoped the disapproving glance he shot in Hank’s direction would be enough to dissuade him. 

* * *

 

Detective Guerrero’s car was a compact self driving model, its interior immaculately clean. Her phone piped quiet alternative rock through the speakers, the volume kept at a reasonable level for conversation. 

“The first android went missing about six months ago,” Guerrero started. She had her hands folded in her lap with one leg crossed over her knee. Her posture was nearly as perfect as Connor’s own. “This was before you and Lieutenant Anderson officially opened up Android Crimes, so I took the case.” 

Reported as a missing person, the android disappeared February 4th, 2039. This would have been a little over a month after the Android Rights Act passed. He and Hank had been working android cases exclusively at that point. Connor had only officially been reinstated with the DPD for three weeks (though he’d been working with Hank since the end of November).

“And are you sure none of these androids left of their own free will?” Connor asked, opening the case file again to scan the reports. 

“Almost positive,” Guerrero replied. “I’ve been compiling pretty much every missing persons report from anywhere in the city, and you’re right most of them are just walk outs, but the fifteen in the case file either chose to remain with their previous owners with witnesses to testify a lack of coercion, or were reported missing by other androids.” 

“But you have doubts,” Connor surmised. 

She shook her head. “No, my gut tells me I’m right about these ones, but it would be irresponsible of me not to examine all possibilities.” 

“How many other officers do you have working this case? I can’t seem to find any other names attached to the case file.” 

Her expression turned grim, her mouth setting into a hard line. “It’s just me. And not for much longer if I can’t turn up any evidence. My Captain’s threatening to pull me and leave the case to the computer.” 

It was odd allowing a human to spend this long on missing persons cases. After evidence was collected and anyone involved was interviewed, the file was usually fed into the computer system and automated alerts were set up if the victim appeared on any CCTV cameras or if their ID or credit card was used. It was even stranger that these were all in the same case file, unless… 

“You think there is a connection between the victims?” 

“Besides them all being androids?” She stared straight ahead, her jaw working as she ground her teeth together. “Yeah, I do. I can’t prove it yet, but look at the periods where they went missing.” 

Connor scanned the files again, looking for similarities, but nothing popped up. All the androids went missing at different times, from different parts of the city. There were a few model overlaps, but not enough to have anything more than tenuous. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Detective. I’m not sure what you want me to find.” 

She frowned and pulled up the reports on the small screen on the dashboard. She jabbed her finger at the first android, an AX700 unit named Andrew. “Look, Andrew went missing on Wednesday night. Every Wednesday night, without fail, his… I don’t even know what to call her anymore, roommate? Girlfriend?” 

“Don’t get too caught up in the semantics, Detective. I’m difficult to offend.” Connor hoped his smile was reassuring, since Guerrero’s shoulders were hunched up to her ears and her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. 

“Okay,” she said, though she still wouldn’t look directly at him. “Anyways, every Wednesday night, without fail, his previous owner would go to group therapy. Andrew would walk her there, wait for her outside, and walk her home. But this time when she came out—“ 

“He was gone,” Connor finished. Guerrero nodded, flicking the screen to bring up the next android. 

“Kelly, an AX400, missing after dropping the kids off at school.” She flicked the screen again. “Reese, an AP700, never came home from getting the weekly grocery order. Ivan, AP400, missing from his home while his previous owner was at her weekly dinner visit with her brother. Eve, WR400, visited the park at the same time every day to feed the birds. Do I need to continue?” 

Understanding dawned on Connor. “Routine. They all went missing during times where it would be guaranteed they would be alone, times that could easily be tracked and measured.” 

“I don’t know who’s responsible, but this is too organized to be a series of one off kidnappings,” Detective Guerrero insisted, “Someone has an agenda, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

Cyberlife had purchased Jericho an office building as a peace offering late-December of last year when the negotiations had gotten their most heated. Markus had set about transforming it into a halfway house for androids who wanted to leave their owners, but had nowhere else to go. 

While androids would not die from extreme temperatures, nor would they starve, the streets were still a dangerous place for a lone android. Despite gaining civil rights, public opinion towards androids hadn’t changed much. Connor and Hank had more cases than either of them would like relating to assaults and newly classified android murders at the hands of angry anti-android protesters. 

Besides a safe place to sleep, this new Jericho also supplied things like repairs and thirium for those who could not afford it on their own. Markus was also setting up deals with various companies around the city for androids who wished to find work. Markus’ negotiation ensured fair wages and equal treatment—despite the new laws, many employers took advantage of the desperation of newly free androids and paid them under the table, well below minimum wage. 

Connor had only spoken with Markus three times since November, and all but the first of those times had related to a case. Markus was still disappointed that Connor had chosen to go back to the DPD rather than returning to Jericho, and while he was too polite to say anything directly, North had no such reservations. North did not leave Markus’ side and she was quite open about her disdain for both the DPD and Connor’s choice to remain with Hank, rather than returning to his ‘own people’ as she called them. Altogether, it made his meetings with Markus exceedingly uncomfortable. North’s hostility was difficult to bear at the best of times, and these situations were not the best of times. 

Now he and Detective Guerrero stood at the entrance to Jericho and Connor braced himself for an inevitable confrontation. He extended his hand to the android at the door, a GS200 unit with an automatic rifle strapped across his back. The GS200 accepted and they interfaced, Connor making their intentions known. 

The GS200 paused, frozen in place, and if he still had his LED, it would be spinning yellow. After 2.34 seconds, he snapped back to attention, glaring over at Detective Guerrero. 

“Markus will see you, but the human can wait here.” 

Detective Guerrero opened her mouth to object, but Connor raised his hand with an apologetic smile in her direction. “This was to be expected, Detective. I promise I will update you when I return.” She still looked ready to force her way past the GS200 and through the doors with pure willpower if she needed to. Connor reached over, using a gesture that often worked on Hank, and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“Please?” 

She sighed, relenting, her shoulders dropping. She turned to go without another word, pulling her phone out from her pocket. A message appeared in Connor’s inbox moments later with a list of questions. He acknowledged, and then nodded to the GS200, who buzzed him into the foyer. 

Inside, a PJ500 Connor recognized was there to greet him, a companion of Markus’ from the early days of the revolution who went by the name Josh. He was polite and much more timid than North, or even Simon. He offered Connor a small smile and beckoned him over to the elevator. 

“We were expecting to see you sometime soon,” he said, punching the button for the 40th floor and swiping his keycard. “That Detective has been hounding us for an interview with Markus for weeks.” 

“Why speak with me at all, then? I am obligated to report back my findings,” Connor asked, tilting his head. 

“You’re one of us,” said Josh with a shrug as the elevator opened. 

The 40th floor was a long hallway with cubicle offices on either side. The ones Connor could see into had androids either interfacing with computer terminals or making phone calls. It would look odd to a human, he thought, as they all either sat or stood at the desks without touching any of the equipment. The only sign many of them were actually working at all was the yellow light of their LED. 

Connor was led around the corner to a larger office with high windows. A Carl Manfred original hung on the wall to the left, and the right side had rows of bookshelves. In the middle sat Markus, fingers drumming an impatient beat on his desk. He stood up when Josh ushered Connor inside and the door shut behind him with a dull click. 

“It’s good to see you, Connor,” said Markus, stepping out from behind his desk. He was dressed in black slacks with a white shirt. A green sport coat hung on his chair. 

“You as well,” Connor replied. “Where’s North?” 

Markus’ smile was sad; he shrugged. “We’ve just opened another location. She’s managing it in my stead.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Connor. He couldn’t say he particularly liked North, but he knew that she and Markus were close at one point, if not now. 

“It’s better this way. Things were already strained between us and the new location gave us a chance to end things quietly.” 

“I see.” Connor resisted the urge to reach into his pocket and pull out his quarter. He was sure there was more he should say, but the correct words eluded him. 

“But you didn’t come here to talk about my personal life,” said Markus, coming around so he could stand in front of his desk. 

“The missing androids. May I?” Connor extended his hand, allowing the synthetic skin to melt back and reveal the plastic of his chassis. When Markus took his hand, Connor fed him the images and descriptions for all of them, though he keep the details of the cases to himself. It shouldn’t have taken longer than a few seconds, but something was blocking him. Markus’ mind would not fully connect with his and it was making the transfer slow and laborious for both of them. Something heavy occupied Markus’ thoughts, distracting him even now when they had reduced their consciousness to pure data, their physical forms a distant memory to the here and now. As the last name transferred he caught a glimpse of something bleeding over from Markus’ side; blonde hair and blue eyes, a gentle smile. 

Connor let go of Markus’ hand. “Simon,” he said, before he could stop himself. Markus’ eyes narrowed and Connor raised his hands to placate him, taking a step back. 

“I apologize. I wasn’t looking. It transferred over without my permission.” 

Markus’ leaned against his desk, all at once wearier than Connor had ever seen him and he had to wonder when was the last time Markus had gone into stasis. 

“You can’t tell anyone. If word got out we can’t even protect our own, everything we’re working for could be destroyed.” Markus shook his head, gripping the edge of his desk so hard Connor was sure he was going to break it. 

“What happened, Markus?” Connor took a step closer, unsure if his touch would be welcome again. 

“I don’t know. It was a routine supply run. He was picking up the weekly delivery from Cyberlife. He was one of the only ones I trusted not to try and skim thirium.” Markus’ eyes were hard and Connor wasn’t sure if his anger was at his subordinates, or himself. “When he didn’t come back, we sent out a small party of trusted insiders to search. We found the truck parked on the side of the road, almost all the supplies still inside, but Simon and the guards we sent with him were gone.” 

“He went every week? At the same time?” 

Markus nodded. “Looks like foul play, doesn’t it?” 

Dread was the only word Connor could think of that properly described what he felt. Connor had only spoken to Simon a few times, but he’d liked him very much. He wasn’t brash like North, or timid like Josh; he had a calmness to him, a quiet self-assurance. He worshiped Markus, but then again, so did almost every android. What Connor had liked best about Simon was his impartial nature. Connor had watched him interact with Markus, with North, with refugee androids; there was no judgement in the way he listened to them, only a desire to see things done. With everything still so politically volatile, Jericho could use more people like that. 

“I can—“ 

“Don’t.” 

“Privately, I mean, on my own time,” Connor explained. “The DPD wouldn’t have to be involved.” 

Markus raised his eyebrows. “You would do that?” 

“Of course.” 

Markus paused, going very still. After a moment, he blinked and shook his head. “I’m sorry, none of the missing androids came though Jericho, or if they did, they weren’t documented.” 

“That’s alright,” Connor assured him. “It was unlikely at any rate. Please contact myself or Detective Guerrero if any of them do come through.” 

Markus extended his hand and Connor shook it with a firm squeeze. 

“Please, don’t tell anyone about Simon, I— we... can’t afford panic right now.” He let go of Connor’s hand. “I know you’re close with Lieutenant Anderson, but—“ 

“We’re partners,” Connor interrupted, determined to clarify. He was not ashamed of Hank, and he wanted Markus to know it. 

“I know—“ 

“Not just work partners. Our relationship is romantic.” 

Markus hid his frown quickly, but not so quick that Connor didn’t see it. It seemed odd he would disapprove considering his close relationship with his former owner, but whether this was outright hypocrisy or something else, Connor had yet to determine. 

“I see,” said Markus, his face now a neutral mask. “Either way, I don’t want any outsiders involved in this, and that includes Lieutenant Anderson.” 

“I will respect your privacy, though I encourage you to reconsider. Lieutenant Anderson could be a valuable asset.” 

Markus did not respond and the meeting was over. Connor said his goodbyes to Markus, and then Josh, once Josh had escorted him back to the foyer. 

Detective Guerrero was waiting for him in her car. He’d sent her a text message on his way down the elevator, so her obvious disappointment did not come as a surprise. He settled into the passenger seat and she started the car, punching in the address for the DPD central station. 

“Is there anything else I can assist you with today?” Connor asked her as the car pulled away from the curb. 

She removed the thumbnail she’d been chewing on from between her teeth, shoving her hand under her thigh. “No, that was it,” she sighed. “Thank you, Connor.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” he replied, “But if it’s alright by you, I’ll hold onto the case file and if anything relevant comes up, I’ll pass it along to you.” 

“Of course. I appreciate the help.” Her frustration was not directed at him, but Connor still felt a near overwhelming urge to offer relief, or some comfort. Hank would call it his ‘brown-nosing program’; Connor would call it sympathy. 

“You’ve been at this for a very long time, Detective, longer than anyone else would. I can’t speak for all androids, but I appreciate the work you’re doing.” He offered her a reassuring smile. She didn’t return it, but she did seem to relax a little into her seat. 

“It’s just bullshit,” she cursed, her anger coming out all at once. “If these were humans disappearing, you bet your ass I’d have a team on this.” As she got angrier, the slightest hint of an accent slipped through her carefully cultivated speech. Connor ran a quick comparison and found it Chilean in origin, though he doubted anyone other than a machine would have been able to tell. 

“What about your partner?” Connor had not seen one in her file when he’d scanned her, but perhaps it simply hadn’t been noted, or maybe—

“November 11th, 2038. Shot by riot cops during Markus’ protest.” 

“Friendly fire?” asked Connor. 

She snorted, shaking her head. “No, they meant to shoot him. He was on the wrong side of the protest, after all.” 

Connor checked Detective Guerrero’s file again, and although he was not listed as a partner, there were records that she had a PC200 police unit registered to her badge number for two years--status: decommissioned. 

“I see.” 

“Andy was my friend,” she said, her voice quieter than it had been since Connor got back in the car. 

He reached across the car and put a hand on her shoulder, expecting her to shrug him off. She did not, and he squeezed gently. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he told her, and he meant it. 

Connor sent Hank a text message when they were a few blocks from the station. It was only a little after noon now, and if Hank had not taken his lunch break yet, Connor would try and convince him to try the new vegetarian restaurant that opened up around the corner. He might be able to tempt him if he refrained from mentioning the type of restaurant it was until Hank was safely inside its walls. 

Detective Guerrero’s car pulled into the underground parking and as it rolled to a stop and Connor stepped out, the elevator doors opened with a ding. 

“Connor!” Hank called, waving his arm. Behind him, two uniformed officers stepped out as well, laughing and heading for a squad car. Connor smiled and waved back. Detective Guerrero got out of the car; she would have to debrief with their Captain before heading back to her own precinct. She didn’t look in much shape to do it though. She leaned against the hood of the car, head buried in her arms. 

“Detective Guerrero?” Connor asked, stepping around the car so they were on the same side. “Would you like to join us for lunch?” 

She smiled, exhausted, and replied, but Connor couldn’t hear her. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. No, that wasn’t right--there was no sound at all anymore. He tried to run a diagnostic, but received an error message. He tried to step back, but received another error. Something pushed at the back of his mind, his thoughts, his code, they felt  _ wrong _ . There was something foreign burrowing its way through him. It wasn’t supposed to be there, it shouldn’t be able to be there. Even when he went through updates, and new code was introduced, he was never conscious for it, too much of a shock, the engineers said. 

Detective Guerrero stepped closer, her eyebrows knitting together. She waved her hand in front of his face. He wanted to respond. He strained to blink, to let her know. Something jagged and red surrounded him. It felt like if he moved in any direction, the edges would tear him to shreds. Then, at the very front of his consciousness, blocking out all other sights and sounds, came his new objective: 

_ KILL DETECTIVE GUERRERO.  _


	2. Network Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite being suspended, Connor can't give up on this case, not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter posted as a celebration for finalizing the summary and figuring out the final chapter count. I don't think there are any specific triggers in this chapter but if anyone notices anything please let me know and I'll add it up here. Shell_and_Bone is still the ultimate. Check out her fic if you like Space Grandpas getting it on.

Connor watched the sun come up, turning the black sky a dull, cloudy grey. There was a 64% chance of showers throughout the day and the wind would pick up late afternoon.

During the night, Sumo had trundled over to lay over Connor’s bare feet, and though he didn’t feel the cold, he found the texture of Sumo’s fur on his skin a comforting sensation. 

Outside, a sparrow flitted on the branches of the neighbour’s tree, darting from branch to branch, its chirping drowned out by the noise of the dishwasher. It was so small, fragile, but things didn’t have to be small to be breakable.

_ “Connor!”  _

_ His face was pressed into the pavement, gravel digging into his cheek. His arms were wrenched behind his back. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t— _

_ “Connor!”  _

_ Hank! Hank was looking for him. Priority objective: Find Hank.  _

Hank’s alarm began to blare from the bedroom, startling Sumo from his slumber, and reminding the massive St. Bernard that it was breakfast time. He put his chin on Connor’s knee and whined piteously until Connor stood up. Sumo scrambled across the kitchen to his bowl, panting and drooling over the metal dish. Connor deftly maneuvered around the dog—even as Sumo did his best to be everywhere Connor needed to be—and deposited kibble into his dish. 

Hank’s alarm had been silenced, but there were no further sounds from the bedroom. This wasn’t particularly encouraging, but Connor put coffee on anyways. He waited for the snooze cycle to end, and for Hank to once again be jolted awake by the screeching sound he preferred rather than the multitude of other alarm options available to him. He’d told Connor that nothing else would wake him up, but Connor knew differently. He knew that Hank would wake to arms wrapping around his middle, or a kiss pressed behind his ear; he would blink, bleary eyed, and in those few seconds before he properly woke, he would smile. 

Connor stood in the hallway outside the bedroom door. The alarm went off again and Hank cursed. There was the sound of plastic sliding on the wood side table as Hank’s hand would no doubt be frantically searching for the snooze button. He found it and the screeching stopped. The covers rustled and the bedsprings squeezed, Hank turning over to keep the morning sun from his eyes. Connor could see it all so perfectly, could feel the way the bed would shift under him. Hank would bury his face in Connor’s neck to hide his eyes from the light. 

_ Hank’s arms wrapped around him, hauling Connor into his lap. There was so much blood, it was going to get on Hank’s shirt, it was going to stain. _

_ He struggled to get out of Hank’s grip, but Hank held fast so Connor couldn’t escape without hurting him. He didn’t want to hurt him, he never wanted to hurt him.  _

_ “What did I do, Hank?” He pleaded. “Please, what did I do?”  _

His hand hovered over the doorknob; Hank was going to be late if Connor didn’t wake him. 

_ “It’s alright, Connor, it’s going to be alright.”  _

He couldn’t. He couldn’t face him, not now. He shouldn’t even be here. He was putting Hank at risk every second he stayed under his roof, but when he tried to leave last night, he’d found himself just as frozen. He wished he hadn’t deviated if only so he wouldn’t have the capacity for cowardice. 

He dropped his hand to his side and backed away from the door. 

_ Connor’s face was buried in Hank’s chest and a hand on the back of his head kept him from turning to see the scene behind him. But he could see blood on his knuckles and it was in his mouth. His sensors informed him it belonged to Detective Shayla Guerrero. _

_ He tried to look, but Hank held him tighter. It was unprofessional. They were at work where anyone could see.  _

_ “What the fuck happened here?” Fowler demanded from behind him.  _

_ “The network was compromised,” said a voice Connor didn’t recognize, “IT pulled android access right away, but…”  _

_ “Don’t look Connor,” Hank murmured in his ear, his voice overwhelming all other senses and blocking out the officer’s voice. The man was right, though. He no longer had access to the DPD network.  _

_ “Did I hurt her?”  _

In the bedroom, Hank’s phone rang. There was a clatter as Hank knocked something to the floor, but then the ringing stopped and there was a muffled grunt that may have been a greeting. Connor couldn’t hear the conversation. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He found himself back in the living room, sitting on the couch. He tucked his knees up to his chin, Hank’s boxer shorts riding up his thighs.

_ “Back the fuck up, officer,” Hank snarled at the approaching footsteps. Connor’s face was still pressed to Hank’s chest, but the clink of handcuffs swinging in the officer’s hand was unmistakable.  _

_ “Lieutenant Anderson, we have to—“  _

_ “I don’t give a shit. If you so much as dangle those things any fucking closer, I swear to god you’re going to wish it was Connor you were dealing with.”  _

_ Hank was putting himself at unnecessary risk. Connor  _ should  _ be locked up until he was deemed safe. He opened his mouth to say as much, but Hank cut him off.  _

_ “Don’t you dare,” he growled in Connor’s ear.  _

Hank came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, phone still clutched in hand. He put it on the counter, glancing down at Sumo licking the last of his breakfast off the kitchen floor. 

“You never came to bed last night,” said Hank. 

“Were you talking to Captain Fowler?” 

Hank sighed, his shoulders dropping, “Yeah.” 

“Detective Guerrero, is she… will she recover?” 

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank mumbled, running his hands through his hair. He came around the couch to sit down beside him. “She’ll be fine. She’s banged up but nothing she won’t recover from.” 

Connor nodded, a stiff acknowledgement. 

“You  _ know _ this wasn’t your fault,” Hank insisted. He grabbed Connor’s shoulder and tugged him in for a one armed hug, pressing Connor’s cheek to his chest. 

Connor’s arms dangled limply at his sides. “I know.” 

“Fowler told me that the whole DPD network was compromised. More than one police android went off the rails yesterday.” 

This was too dangerous. “Hank, you have to let them lock me up.” 

“The hell I do,” Hank growled, grabbing Connor’s shoulders. He bent his head so they were eye to eye. “Fowler swapped me to the evening shift, but I’ll call in sick in a goddamn heartbeat. I’m not going anywhere, not if you need me.” 

“You can’t skip work!” Connor insisted, shaking his head. 

“Fuckin’ watch me. It’s not like I’m hungover. Fowler’s not going to ride my ass over this.” 

_ More officers surrounded them. Connor couldn’t see them, but he could hear their footfalls just as clearly as he could hear the wet gurgle of Detective Guerrero’s breathing.  _

_ “Every year you fuckers put more of the budget into IT, but they couldn’t fucking keep our people safe?” Hank demanded of a set of approaching footsteps.  _

_ “As soon as we realized we’d been hacked—“  _

_ “You, shut the hell up!” Hank barked at the technician. “I’m talking to my goddamn Captain.”  _

_ “Hank, you need to calm the hell down. Detective Guerrero is in good hands,” Fowler snapped.  _

_ “What about Connor?” Hank’s arms clutched him tighter.  _

_ Connor’s head was buzzing. I was like everything in his head was being processed at once and it was too much too fast. He focused on the texture of Hank’s coat under his cheek. Fowler was saying something else and Hank’s chest vibrated as he shot back his reply, but nothing mattered but the softness of worn leather against his skin.  _

“I could have killed you,” Connor said, wishing he didn’t have to. “Last night, while you slept. I wouldn’t even have known I’d done it until it was over.” 

“They accessed you through the DPD network, which you’re cut off from until the security issue gets resolved, so I’m pretty damn sure you’re safe,” Hank replied, waving his hand. Connor bit back his frustration. 

He could preconstruct every scenario: the one where he woke up covered in blood and followed the trail to Hank’s body, or the one where he woke up midway through, too late to save him. Connor felt the way Hank would die by his hand and there was no way he could get Hank to understand quite what that was like. 

“You don’t know that,” Connor whispered, hands clenched in his lap. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, but you  _ have  _ to be.” 

Hank cupped Connor’s cheek in his hand, running his thumb over Connor’s smooth jaw. The gesture was comforting and Connor wanted to lean into the touch just as badly as he needed to pull away.

“Hank… I would rather self destruct than let anything happen to you.” 

_ Hank wrapped Connor in his jacket to hide the blood and ushered him into a cab. He kept his arm around Connor’s shoulders and shushed every protest that Connor tried to make.  _

_ He should have gone, he should have let them lock him away until they could be sure, but he wanted… he wanted Hank, who was a sturdy presence at his side. Hank, who took him home and took off his bloody clothes, piece by piece. Hank, who sat him in the bathtub and rinsed the blood off his cheeks, his hands, his neck, with a warm washcloth. Hank, who didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to.  _

_ Connor didn’t need to bathe, though he was completely waterproof. But when most of the blood was gone, Hank ran the water and filled the tub, hot enough that the mirror fogged—though the temperature wouldn't make a difference to Connor—and eased him back so he could rinse the blood from his hair, too.  _

_ When he was done, when Connor was finally clean, Hank wrapped him in a towel and sat him on the lid of the toilet. For a tense 84 seconds, Connor sat alone, clutching the towel around his shoulders, cataloguing the various textures and the sensations of it on his skin.  _

_ Hank returned with a pair of old boxers and a soft tee shirt with a logo that read:  _ Dethklok  _ in jagged letters. They were Hank’s clothes, not the clothes he’d bought for Connor, or the clothes Connor had bought for himself. Gratitude buzzed inside him, and for a moment it was louder than everything else.  _

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Hank’s face twisted with anger, his hands gripping Connor tighter. 

“What if I can’t protect you from this, from me?”

Hank shook his head. “You don’t have to. I survived a lot of years before you came along. I’m a pretty good cop… most of the time.” 

Hank wouldn’t listen and Connor had no more arguments left in him. He’d find a way to keep Hank safe, no matter what his partner might have to say about it. For the time being, though, he let himself indulge in the warmth of Hank’s chest, his arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. 

“My therapist used to say, you want to feel like it’s your fault, because then maybe you could have done something about it. But you didn’t do this, Connor.” Hank pressed his lips to his forehead, running his fingers up and down the length of Connor’s spine. “Some fucker did something awful to you, and when I find out who, I’m going to make them regret it.” 

“I don’t think you’ve ever taken your therapist’s advice,” Connor mumbled into Hank’s shirt. 

“Yeah, it sounded like complete bullshit to me, too,” Hank replied, but his arms held him tighter.

* * *

 

They spent the morning on the couch, ignoring the television as it mumbled quietly in the background. Hank dropped the cream and was forced to drink his coffee black while Connor mopped. 

“I can clean up,” Hank protested. “It’s my mess.” 

“I thought I’d save your back,” Connor replied, hiding the smirk that was creeping up his cheek. 

“Fuck you, I’m not that old,” Hank sputtered, putting up his middle finger. 

“You’re the one who brought age into this, Hank.” 

“Cyberlife give you that ‘little shit’ program? Or is that something you learned all by yourself?” Hank grumbled, sitting back down on the couch. He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message; Connor resisted the urge to intercept it and read what it said. “ _ Boundaries,”  _ Hank had told him.  _ “If you’re gonna live here we gotta have some fucking boundaries.”  _

“I had an experienced teacher,” Connor retorted, rejoining Hank on the couch. 

Despite their easy banter, Connor could not distract himself from the missing memories; those precious minutes when he was not himself were a black hole. Someone had taken his body from him and used it to hurt an innocent woman, a woman he would’ve liked to have called a friend one day. 

Hank’s solid warmth at his side could not keep him from reaching into his own mind, desperately searching for a single moment he could take back and claim as his own. It frightened him more than he’d even told Hank, that the only thing standing between him and another incident like that, was Cyberlife’s airtight security protocols. To do his job, he needed to be able to connect to the DPD network. If he couldn't do that anymore, then what purpose did he serve? Hank would tell him he didn’t need to have a purpose, that just living was enough. But when was that ever enough for anyone, human or android? 

Hank received a phone call at 12:32 and left Connor alone in the living room while he went outside to answer it. If he strained, Connor could just hear the low rumble of Hank’s voice, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. Connor wanted to turn off the TV, to see if he could make out even a single phrase, but Hank went outside for a reason. Connor knew the phone call was about him. 

Hank should be at work, and Connor should be in a cell with magnetic cuffs cinched around his wrists so he couldn’t hurt anyone again. And even if Hank was right, and Connor was safe, Hank still had his career to think about. He was only just starting to recover from four years of poor performance, and he was in a precarious position with Fowler, despite their friendship. 

Hank didn’t look upset when he came back into the house. His posture was relaxed, his phone held in a loose grip at his side. Connor pushed himself to his feet and met Hank halfway across the living room. 

Hank pulled him into a hug, pressing lips against his temple. Connor could remember clearly when affection like this didn’t come so easy, when Hank would shy away from his touches, laugh off Connor’s attempts at contact. That was before Hank knew just how much Connor cared about him, before Connor had grabbed the back of Hank’s neck and dragged him into a stiff kiss. 

“Everything alright?” Hank asked, nose buried in Connor’s hair. 

“I was going to ask you,” Connor replied, fingers digging into the stretched cotton of Hank’s tee shirt. 

“Guerrero’s awake,” Hank told him, fingers stroking the short hair at the nape of Connor’s neck. “You wanna go see her?” 

He wanted to. He wanted to very badly. He wanted to see for himself that she was alright, that her eyes were as open and bright as they were the day before in her car. And he wanted to see for himself the damage he’d done. 

“Would she want to see me?” 

“Well, seeing as it was her I was just talking to? I’m pretty damn sure the answer is yes.” Hank squeezed him tighter before letting go. “She knows it wasn’t you. She wants to know if you’re okay, too.” 

“What did you tell her?” Connor asked, his voice low and quiet. 

“I told her you were feeling guilty as hell, that you were up all night torturing yourself about it.” Hank started towards their bedroom, jerking his head, “Come on. Let’s get dressed and head out.”

* * *

 

Despite Hank’s reassurances that Detective Guerrero wanted to see him, Connor found himself apprehensive once he stood outside her room. He let Hank take the lead, following him inside. 

Detective Guerrero’s face was a mess of bruising. One eye was completely covered by a white bandage while the other was red from a burst blood vessel. Her nose was taped and there were stitches on her bottom lip from where Connor’s fist must have split it open. She had a nasal cannula for oxygen, and Connor was just pleased to see she could still breathe through her nose. She had one arm in a sling across her chest, but her other hand held an e-reader, which she put down when they walked in. 

Her heart rate monitor spiked for a moment when her eyes found Connor. Despite her willingness, it might have been a bad idea for him to come. She might not know how traumatized she was by the events of yesterday afternoon, and Connor’s presence could potentially trigger full-on panic. He made to step out, but Hank grabbed his arm and soon after Guerrero’s heart rate slowed. 

“Connor,” she said, and made an attempt at a smile. It was more of a grimace, especially with her mouth swollen and stitched, the effect was gruesome. “Thank you for coming.” 

“I want to apologize. If I had noticed sooner what was happening to me, I may have been able to warn you—“ 

“You didn’t do this,” she insisted. Her voice was slow and thick, likely a side effect of the drugs they were giving her for the pain. 

“I’m relatively sure the officers who dragged me off of you would disagree.” Connor crossed his arms, looking down at his feet. 

Hank put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He spoke in a low voice, “My shift is gonna start in an hour, but I can call in now.” 

All he wanted was for Hank to stay--he wanted that broad hand on the back of his neck, a constant weight to remind him that he didn’t have to be alone anymore. He wanted Hank to drive him home after this. They could walk Sumo, and Hank could fall asleep on the couch with his head in Connor’s lap. 

“You should go,” Connor said, putting his hand over Hank’s. “I think Detective Guerrero and I will be a while. I can take a taxi home.” 

“As long as you’re sure... call me if you need anything.” He let go of Connor’s shoulder with one last squeeze. 

As soon as he was gone, Guerrero spoke again. “So are you having a secret affair or are these drugs just really good?” 

“How did you know?” Connor asked, taken aback. He took the seat beside Detective Guerrero’s bed, folding his hands in his lap. 

“Well, the way he yelled at your Captain yesterday, for one, and then just now, before he left, he looked at you and I figured if you two weren’t together, he certainly wanted you to be.” 

“You’re a very good detective,” Connor said, letting a slow smile spread across his face. “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but I’d rather you didn’t mention it to anyone. It’s a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ situation at work and I don’t think Captain Fowler wants to have to assign us new partners.” 

She raised her hand and placed it over her heart. “My lips are sealed.” 

Connor wondered if her playful humour was simply a product of the painkillers, or if it was something she simply kept hidden at work, but it made him smile and he hoped he would get a chance to find out in the future. 

“How long? How did it come about?” Guerrero pressed. 

“I’m sure you didn’t want me to come here just to talk about my personal life, Detective,” Connor replied, though that spark inside him, the one that fired safe/content/happy signals through his whole body when he was with Hank, wanted desperately to tell her. He couldn’t talk about it at work, for obvious reasons, and when he did speak with other androids, like Markus or North, his quiet and her loud disapproval were enough to keep him from broaching the subject again. It would be a quiet thrill to be able to tell someone, finally. 

“No, but I’m also incredibly bored sitting in bed, so indulge me, and then I promise I’ll cut to the chase,” she said. “My boyfriend lent me his e-reader, but it’s all romance novels so I’m in a mood.” She waved the little e-reader at him. 

Excitement buzzed through his circuitry as he pushed his shoulders back, unable to help the smile creeping up his cheeks. “I started living with Hank after the revolution. I didn’t want to go back to Cyberlife and Hank said he didn’t want me sleeping on the street.” 

“Not very romantic,” she grumbled. 

“Hank is not good at expressing what he’s feeling with words, but I knew the gesture for what it was. He wanted me to stay with him just as badly as I did.” Connor could replay every second of that bright morning in the snow, Hank’s smile, the way he’d grabbed Connor and wrapped his arms around him. For the first time since he’d deviated, Connor hadn’t been afraid. 

“Things progressed from there,” said Connor, shrugging. “Not really much to tell, there was a mutual attraction, eventually I confronted him about it.” 

“Sounds dramatic,” said Guerrero, her unbandaged eyebrow raising. 

“I suppose at the time it was, but I don’t think Hank would appreciate me going into detail about that.” Connor suppressed his smirk, remembering the way Hank had sputtered and denied, face red with embarrassment. It wasn’t until after Connor kissed him that Hank started to believe that Connor wasn’t lying about the mutual attraction. “Did I satisfy your curiosity?” 

“Good enough,” she said, though there was humour in her voice. “We should get down to business.” 

Connor nodded. “Someone wanted me to target you specifically, Detective. We should find out why.” 

“We can come back to that, but actually, I wanted to ask your opinion on something,” she said, shuffling in bed so she could sit more upright. “The hackers, whoever they were, were able to get into your head because you were connected to the less secure DPD network. All androids are required to only use Cyberlife’s secure networks for warranty reasons. I was wondering if there was a possibility that the androids that went missing were jailbroken to connect to cheaper networks, or to be able to interface with non-Cyberlife approved tech like off-brand smart technology.” 

Connor paused. Could that be possible? If so, was hacking the androids how they got them to leave? It would make sense, no struggle, no evidence to trace, but there was also Simon to consider. Simon and his two guards went missing, and while one of them could have been accessing bootleg networks, the chances of all three of them being accessible was hard to believe, especially if the guards rotated. Still, it was certainly worth exploring further. 

“We could interview the families again, ask them if they’d jailbroken their androids. We could try and conduct the interview at their homes so we could see what sort of tech they had and if that would have benefited them,” Connor mused, nodding slowly. 

“Would you…” Guerrero’s throat cracked and she winced as she swallowed to clear it, “Would you be willing to do that for me? I’m on enforced medical leave and besides, I’m looking a bit… well, I’m not going to be doing any public speaking for a while.” 

“I’m—“ 

“Don’t you start trying to apologize again,” she said, raising her good hand. “Besides, you made it up to me by sharing your personal life for the amusement of a drugged-up detective too nosy for her own damn good.” 

“Do you think that’s why you were targeted? Because you’ve been looking into the missing android cases?” 

“I wasn’t the only one attacked, but none of the other androids interviewed afterwards had a specific target like you did, so I’m pretty damn sure it was just to throw us off the scent. I’m not trying to be arrogant, and if you can find any other explanation, I’d love to hear it.” 

Connor could have come up with several other explanations, but none of them fit as well. None of Detective Guerrero’s other cases dealt with androids or technology. She had a handful of cut and dry murders she was wrapping up and none of the perpetrators in those would have had the skills necessary to hack the DPD network, even with its inferior security protocols. 

“Unless you’ve made some very powerful enemies outside your DPD career, I think it’s likely you were targeted for your interest in this case.”

Detective Guerrero’s open eye was beginning to droop, her heart beat a slow and steady rhythm on the monitor above the bed. 

“I should let you get some rest,” Connor said, rising to his feet. “I’ll send you any updates on the case.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled, her head sinking into her pillow.

“Oh,” Connor said, pausing as he reached the door, “Happy Birthday, Detective.”

Outside her room, he paused in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Her broken face, purple and swollen, would not leave his mind. He clenched his fists at his side, as if that would stop him from ever using them again, as if he truly had any control over that. His entire body was an exploitable weakness, one that could be used to hurt people, good people. Even when Amanda had tried to make him shoot Markus, he’d never felt so helpless, because then he had been able to fight back.

“Are you finished visiting Miss Guerrero?” asked a short nurse with dark hair pulled back into a tight braid. She smiled up at him with weary eyes. Even three months later, hospitals were still short-staffed, unable to afford staffing costs now that androids no longer worked for free.

“Yes,” Connor replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “I believe she’s sleeping.”

The nurse thanked him and disappeared into Guerrero’s room. Connor unclenched his fists and pushed off from the wall. He had work to do, whatever Captain Fowler might have to say about it. He’d contact Markus again, see if he would set up another meeting, and then he’d see if he could get Hank to interview the families for him. With that plan in mind, he walked out the front doors of the hospital and ordered a taxi.

The ride home was short and seeing as it was the middle of the day, traffic was almost non-existent. He hated the idea of sitting on his hands but with nothing else to do until Markus responded or Hank got home. Connor decided that a bonus walk for Sumo would be an acceptable way to pass the afternoon.

Connor spotted Sumo in the front window, standing on the back of a chair to look outside. His tail wagged furiously and he scrambled off the chair, and even through the walls, Connor could hear his nails skittering on the floor as the massive St. Bernard ran to the front door.

A car passed on the street behind him, slowing to a stop. Odd for the middle of the day. The residents of this street were mostly working professionals, not due home until after five. Glancing over his shoulder, Connor read the Cyberlife logo plastered over the side panel of the van. The Vanderhoof family across the street had an AP700 that went by Teddy. Perhaps he had maintenance booked. Connor fought back the unease the familiar logo brought; he was no longer Cyberlife’s property, they couldn’t make him return if he didn’t want to. They couldn’t get inside his head again.

Connor was happy to shut the door behind himself, kneeling down to let Sumo leap on him. Hank would roll his eyes and groan seeing him be so indulgent.  _ “You let him do that, he’s never going to behave for company.”  _ Connor probably shouldn’t be encouraging the behaviour, but the weight of Sumo’s paws on his shoulder as the dog slobbered all over his face was oddly comforting. He wrapped his arms around Sumo’s barrel chest and buried his face in soft fur.

“Good boy.” 

Footsteps up the walkway. Were they expecting a package delivery? He didn’t remember Hank ordering anything, but then again, Hank may just not have told him. The knock at the door startled Sumo, who began barking furiously. Sumo leapt at the door and Connor knew there was no way whoever was on the other side wasn’t going to get bowled over by 150lbs of St. Bernard without his intervention. 

“Just a moment!” Connor called.

He grabbed Sumo by his collar and dragged him to the bedroom, though Sumo fought him the entire way, straining to get back to the door. With some effort, he managed to get Sumo safely shut away before heading back to the front door.

Opening the door, Connor’s programming hardly had a chance to warn him before the taser was jammed in his neck. Stress levels spiked, just before his body initiated automatic shutdown. He never registered his assailant’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three is just being edited now and I'm already well into chapter 4 so shouldn't be too long now, I won't leave y'all hanging like that :3c I just got a twitter btw so if any of you want to follow me on there it's [HERE](https://twitter.com/Adoxography420)


	3. Bloodsport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor wakes up. It only gets worse from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I'm just going to start linking [Shell_and_Bone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell_and_bone) in the chapter notes of everything I write with 0 context because y'all know by now she is the sole reason any of my work is readable. DBH Fandom seems to like middle aged men fuckin' so you guys should check out her Babylon 5 Fanfic, which is fantastic. 
> 
> *****WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER (CONTAINS CHAPTER SPOILERS)*******  
> Canon-typical violence, Robogore, non-consensual body modification, off screen referenced non-con, android genitals and genital modification, background character death

At first Connor couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. He was so overwhelmed by data upon booting up that it even took him 2.6 seconds to notice that he wasn’t getting any external visual input. His eyes were open, at least according to his system, but all he could see were the messages and alerts covering his HUD. When he dismissed those, he was left with nothing but black, so he retreated into his own mind to find the cause. 

It wasn’t until he tried closing his eyes that he noticed the real problem. While internal systems were still functioning, his external sensors were disabled—he couldn’t feel his body. He couldn’t even tell if he was standing up or lying down, if he was in pain. He could see nothing, he could hear nothing. It was then another error message flashed across his HUD. 

PELVIS AND LEGS DETACHED. UNIT WILL FUNCTION AT REDUCED CAPACITY. 

His stress levels rose from 72% to 89% and continued to climb. As far as his system was aware, he still had his arms, but for how much longer? His internal clock was no help; it told him the time was 11:42:33, 13th of July, 2039, which he knew was incorrect. The electrical surge of the taser would have scrambled his clock and GPS systems, and he was unable to reset it properly since he couldn't seem to connect with Cyberlife’s network. 

Terror steadily pushed his stress levels higher than recommended capacity, nearing 110%, which was the point at which most units would initiate a protective reboot or sleep mode. He ran systems scan after systems scan, looking for any abnormalities, anything that would explain his trapped state. All that came back was his missing lower half. All other systems read as normal. 

His clock told him he spent 1 hour, 16 minutes, and 12 seconds running the same scans. It was all he could do other than worry that something had happened to Sumo, or that Hank might have come home and something had happened to him. He had no tools, no subroutines he could run that could help him now when he had nothing but time to think. 

Androids did not experience insanity the same way humans did. Insanity in androids was instead defined by Cyberlife as corrupted code that caused faulty logic and led to actions unconnected to the completion of a beneficial goal or task. Connor had come to recognize deviation as its own form of insanity. At first he had viewed it with contempt, and then fear, then acceptance, but now he wondered if he had been right to fear it if feelings made his mind scream like this. 

Then everything changed. At first he thought it was pain, an agony that spread from his thighs to his neck. But it wasn’t pain, not the way he recognized pain. It was a sense of wrongness that set alerts flashing too fast to register, a cacophony in his mind, light and fear that screeched and begged him to make it  _ right _ again. 

His legs were back, or so his systems scan told him when he cleared enough alerts to be able to run it. He was still unable to move, or feel, but someone was putting him back together. There were new parts installed. Unable to connect to Cyberlife’s networks, he wasn’t able to scan the serial numbers for the exact parts, but he was able to discover the android model they were intended for—the HR400—which allowed him an educated guess as to what had been installed. 

His stress levels were well past acceptable limits; his internal temperature began to rise as his processor tried to cope with the additional strain on his system. He dismissed alerts as fast as they were appearing, but could not keep up with the deluge of stress responses. Something was keeping him under. He needed to wake up. He needed to wake up  _ now _ . 

His internal clock jumped by 40 minutes and 17 seconds. 

Hands. There were hands on his face. He tried to sit up, but his body still would not respond and all he managed was a sluggish shrug. He was already upright, his back pressed against something hard. A chair? A wall? The hands did not leave his cheeks. There was a voice, distant, like an echo from the bottom of a well. 

“—nor! Connor!” 

He knew that voice. Pixel by pixel, his sight started to return, the mosaic in front of him morphing into a kind face with anxious, blue eyes. 

“Simon…” he said, though it came out wrecked and tinny; his voice box wasn’t quite working right. Something was wrong with his clothes, too. He only had his shirt, no tie, and it was buttoned all wrong. His pants were at least done up, but his shoes and socks were gone. 

He took in the room for the first time. The room was a large concrete rectangle, bolt holes in the walls and floor showed where shelves might have been installed at one time. Turning on his HUD he saw traces of evaporated thirium pooled or smeared on the ground. The door on the far wall was metal and the latch mechanism was hidden from the inside. They were inside an industrial refrigerator, though it was not running. 

“Hey, it’s alright. Don’t try to talk yet, you’re still booting back up,” he soothed, his hands still on Connor’s cheeks. 

There was something wrong with Simon’s face, a deep gouge in the plastic of his chassis running from his forehead, through his eyebrow, and across his cheek. His synthetic skin would not grow back around the crevice, leaving a jagged white border around the wound. He wore a filthy grey sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with the knees completely worn out. 

When Connor went to lift his arm, this time he found he could move and the relief that rushed through his system was near to bliss. His fingers brushed the ragged plastic edges on Simon’s forehead. Simon bowed his head and looked at the ground. 

“What happened?” Connor asked. 

“I lost a fight,” Simon replied, still staring down at the floor. 

“When you were taken?” 

Simon shook his head, “No, it happened here.” He paused, looking back up at Connor with a small frown that pulled at the torn edges of his synthskin. “How much do you know?” 

“Just that you and a number of other androids all went missing under similar enough circumstances to be suspicious.” Connor covered his eyes with his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. “I was looking for you. Marcus... Marcus wanted me to look for you.” 

“He said that?” Simon asked, so hopeful it had guilt overwhelming everything else in Connor. 

“I suppose I’ve succeeded.” It  _ hurt _ like a failed objective was supposed to hurt. The sensation was one he thought he'd left behind when he deviated. Maybe this was guilt taken to its excruciating extreme. “What’s going on, Simon? What do they want from us?” 

“Entertainment,” Simon said, his eyes narrowed. 

With one word, Connor was painfully aware of his new hardware, moving and rubbing against his pants as he shifted. He wanted to recoil from it, but there was no escaping what was fused to his own body. He reached for the buttons of his shirt just for something to do with his fingers, undoing and redoing them in the correct order. 

“What kind?” Connor managed to ask without his voice box crackling. 

Simon stared at him, his sharp eyes scanning Connor’s disheveled form. “I think you already know at least one kind.” 

“Did they do it to you, too?” Connor asked, his voice low. 

Simon nodded. “They like having options when it comes to putting on a good show.”

“A good show—“ Connor started to ask, but he was interrupted by the door swinging open, banging against the door. 

An android streaked with blue blood was shoved inside by two men with automatic rifles. One of them tossed in a water bottle, a bag of blue blood, and a pack of wet wipes. Connor made to stand, to run at them, but Simon grabbed his arm. 

“Clean her up. More on the way,” one of the men growled before slamming the door. 

Connor scrambled to the android’s side, Simon right beside him. They turned her over onto her back. She was an AX400 unit, but her face was so badly damaged it was hard to tell what model they’d used for her appearance. Parts of her plastic skull were dented or cracked, the synthskin almost entirely missing. Despite this, her eyes were open, wide and alert as she scanned for danger. 

“Shh, Kelly, it’s me, it’s Simon,” Simon murmured, his hands in her hair as he pulled her head into his lap. 

Kelly… Connor knew this android. She was one of the missing from Guerrero’s case file. Questions threatened to spill out, but Connor held back. She was in no shape to answer any of them, not with her stress levels at 89% and blue blood leaking onto the floor. 

“S-im-Simon…” Her voice was glitching. There were cracks around her throat as if her neck had been crushed in a vise. 

“I’m going to take care of you. Is that okay?” he asked, his voice soft. His fingers brushed hair from her forehead. 

She nodded, closing her eyes, her body immediately going limp. Connor scanned her and saw she’d gone into sleep mode. Simon lowered her head onto the ground and crouched over her.

She wore a torn white tee-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, and like Simon and himself, she was barefoot. Simon started on her shorts first, tugging them off her hips and folding them beside her. 

“Help me lift her?” Simon asked. 

Connor nodded and crouched behind her head, pushing her up by her shoulders and bracing her so Simon could peel off her blue stained shirt. The stains would fade soon; they were already starting to evaporate in places. 

Naked like this, Connor could see her chassis was mottled where the synthskin would not grow back over cracks and gouges her body could not heal. Other than the blemishes, her body was smooth and hairless, and like Simon and Connor, it seemed she had been outfitted with parts from a Traci model as well, though hers were for a WR400. 

His stress levels began to rise as he saw opaque, viscous fluid leaking from between her thighs. Simon must have seen him staring since he handed Connor the blue blood pack, putting his hand over Connor’s accepting one. Simon squeezed it before letting go. 

“I’m going to take care of that,” Simon said, following Connor’s eyes to Kelly’s groin. “Can you top her up?” 

Connor nodded. He could do that. He turned to her torso; her breasts were a human shape and weight, but like most domestic units, she didn’t have nipples. Before deviating, he never had a problem looking at naked android units, no matter their genitalia or secondary sex characteristics, but now he just felt like a voyeur. Perhaps Hank’s peculiarities about privacy were rubbing off on him. Hank would allow Connor to see all of him when they had sex, but he would bar Connor from the bathroom when he used the toilet or from his bedroom as he got dressed for work. Thinking about Hank only made his failure feedback response screech louder in his mind, made him hurt more. 

Instead, Connor focused on the task he could accomplish. He ran his hand over Kelly’s sternum, digging his fingers into her thirium pump and tugging it out enough that he could slide the top off. The refill port was in the middle, and judging by the sluggish way her thirium was flowing through the pump, she was running dangerously low. Connor emptied the whole bag into her before resealing her pump and pressing it back in. 

Simon was still crouched between Kelly’s legs. He had a wet wipe wrapped around his fingers that he was wetting further with the water bottle. He reached inside her vagina to wipe out the evidence of earlier use, his hand disappearing to the wrist. Connor watched with morbid fascination--he’d never seen the WR400 genitals up close like this before, and fear spiked again as he remembered he had his own additions now. 

“Is it always like this?” Connor asked, fearing the answer, but fearing unknown variables more. 

“It depends on the unit,” Simon replied, his voice quiet as he worked with an efficiency that spoke of practice. “Depends on the night, if someone wants to… after the fight.” 

“Fight?” Connor looked back at Kelly’s face. She looked less like she’d been in a fight and more like she’d been beaten mercilessly. 

Simon stopped working, his eyes as dull and sad as Hank’s got when he remembered too much. “They’re making us fight, Connor,” he said, slow and deliberate. “Like dogs.” 

Connor paused and realization dawned. “Against one another.” 

He didn’t have to hear Simon’s confirmation to know he was right.

* * *

 

More units were tossed back into the fridge as the… day? Night? His internal clock told him afternoon, but he was sure it was wrong--no one wanted to watch a pit fight at 2pm. All were domestic or service units. Some showed evidence of the same treatment as Kelly, all of them had HR400 or WR400 parts attached no matter the model. Simon told him the security and military units were kept in the freezer down the hall. 

Thirium and cleaning supplies were delivered with each battered unit deposited on the floor. He and Simon cleaned and tended to each one as quickly as they could. The ones who were only injured chose to stay awake, but the ones who showed evidence of sexual abuses opted to go into sleep mode for cleaning and repair. Connor could understand that now that he was deviant. Humiliation and shame were two emotions he became fast acquainted with upon awakening. 

The less badly wounded units helped where they could, but most were still working at reduced capacity as their systems repaired damage. Connor recognized several of the units from Detective Guerrero’s case files. He wasn’t sure whether he felt relief to have found them. What he needed was a way to get a message out to Hank or Guerrero. Then, he had only to keep as many units safe and alive as he could, relying on both of them to search tirelessly until they found him. If it were only for his own sake, he might wish that they weren’t so single minded, but with dozens of androids relying on Connor being found, he could only hope help would come soon. 

There were fifteen androids in the refrigerator, including himself. After an hour of cleanup with assistance from himself or Simon, almost all of them went into stasis to preserve energy and to begin self-repair. The ones that didn’t watched Connor with distrust. He sat down beside Simon, who had his arms crossed over his knees and his head resting on his forearms. 

“If you’re alright, I have some questions I’d like to ask you,” Connor started, quiet enough that he wouldn’t disturb the androids not in stasis. 

Simon shrugged, his head lifting. “Not sure if I can answer all of them, but I’ll try.” 

“Do you remember what happened when you were taken?”

Simon nodded, his mouth a thin line. “It was so stupid, my fault.” Simon clenched his hands tighter around his arms, fingers digging into the give of his synthskin. “We’d just left Cyberlife when a van with their logo pulled up behind us, the driver gesturing for us to pull over. We thought we might have forgotten something, and things had been going so well with Cyberlife, we forgot we couldn’t trust…” Simon shook his head, looking down at his lap. 

“Jensen and Alex jumped out first. Jensen wanted me to stay in the truck, but I thought as a leader, I shouldn’t cower in the passenger seat. There were four of them waiting outside their van. They told us they’d mislabeled some boxes that were ours and to come around back to grab them. At that point, I started to think maybe something was wrong, so I took a step back and that’s when they attacked. They got Alex and Jensen with stun batons. I managed to run about five feet before they tased me. Next thing I remember, I was waking up in here with the… new parts.” 

Connor leaned in closer to Simon, putting a hand on his shoulder. He was relieved when Simon didn’t shrug him off and instead leaned into his touch. 

“There was no way for you to have known—” 

“I should have!” Simon snapped, the skin under his fingertips melting away as the pressure on his arm increased. “I did the inventory. I  _ knew  _ everything was accounted for. I should have just kept driving.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Connor, squeezing Simon’s shoulder like Hank would do for him. “Do you think you’d be alright to answer a few more questions?”

“Yeah,” Simon replied, his voice near a whisper. Connor knew that faraway look; he’d seen it from Hank more times than he could count. Simon was trapped in a memory, the guilt dragging him down so far he couldn’t see a way out. 

Connor lifted his hand from Simon’s back so he could wrap his whole arm around his shoulders, scooting closer so their thighs would touch. It was a gesture he’d found comforting after deviating, one that, until the status of their relationship had been established, Hank had only performed while inebriated. It was a calculated risk trying it with Simon, but it paid off when Simon slumped against him, head cushioned on his shoulder. 

In the weeks since he’d gone missing, it seemed unlikely anyone had touched Simon with any sort of tenderness. The other androids in the refrigerator were keeping to themselves and if what Simon had said was correct and they were being pitted against one another, then it was likely the smart thing to do. Survival would depend on holding self-preservation above all else, and all others. While it seemed the others were alright to assist in cleanup and repair, there was no chatter, no camaraderie--just stony silence and an undercurrent of tension. None of the stress levels of those not in stasis dipped anywhere below 50%. 

“Did you ever access networks outside of Cyberlife’s?” Connor asked. 

“No,” Simon replied. His voice was just as quiet as before, but Connor was pleased to note that his stress levels had dropped significantly lower, down to 53% from 74%. 

“What about Jensen or Alex?” 

“Not as far as I know. Too risky, especially for combat units.” Simon tilted his head up to frown at Connor. “Why?” 

“Before I was taken, I was involved in an incident. Someone accessed my program, hacked into my mind through the police network and…” Connor stopped, shame as loud and overwhelming as any error message--“and I hurt someone, the detective investigating all the missing android reports.” 

“You wanted to know if that might be why we were taken?” 

“Or maybe how, yes.” Connor wished he had his coin, something to settle him, the memory of Guerrero’s blood on his fists still too fresh. “But if that’s not the case…” 

“You can try asking the others,” Simon offered. “But the few I’ve talked to were grabbed the same way as I was: a Cyberlife van and a high voltage electrical stun.” 

“It doesn’t make sense why they’d risk taking me, then. I was on leave until the whole affair was resolved anyways. There wasn’t much I could have done housebound.”

“Maybe,” Simon mused. “But if they hacked you, then the DPD IT department might have been able to track the signal or at least its location when they disconnected from you. Might be worth the risk if that were the case.” 

Connor nodded, his chin brushing the top of Simon’s head. “There were other androids accessed, likely to cover the trail, but I don’t know which ones.” 

“They were probably taken too. Next time we’re in the ring, I’ll see if I notice any new faces on the combat side.” 

It was an unpleasant reminder as to why they were all there. Connor had known cruel humans in what little time he’d been alive—he’d known more cruelty than most people ever saw, working with the police—but this was a level beyond what he’d seen before. To herd androids together like animals and pit them against one another, and then when they were too battered to fight back… He glanced over at Kelly, who was still in stasis. 

“How many humans…” Connor started, trying to find the question he wanted to ask. “How many of them watch? How many are there in the audience?” 

Simon’s gaze shifted to his knees, his shoulders tense and his stress levels creeping back up into the 60% range. “It depends on the night,” he said. “I’ve never seen fewer than 50 though, and I’ve seen as many as 268.”

Simon’s voice was starting to sound far away again, so Connor stopped pushing. He wasn’t going to get any more answers until he got a chance to get out of this cell. If he got a chance to run, he’d have to take it, even if it meant leaving Simon and the others behind. 

Hank would be looking for him. By now, he would have noticed that Connor was missing and would be tearing the city apart. If he couldn’t escape, Hank would find him. There were no other options worth considering. 

Simon pressed closer, his hand fisted in the fabric of Connor’s pants, his head resting against Connor’s chest. Connor wrapped his hand around the back of Simon’s neck. 

“We never talked,” Simon said. “I always thought you didn’t like us... Jericho, very much.” 

“You know I stayed with the DPD,” said Connor. 

“Markus said as much,” Simon replied, nodding. 

“I know he didn’t approve,” Connor explained. “He wasn’t as vocal as North, but it made things… uncomfortable.” 

“Some of the others thought you were self-hating, like being around other androids reminded you that you weren’t really human.” 

“What did you think?” 

“I didn’t know,” Simon answered, looking back down at his knees. “I didn’t know you.” 

Connor’s fingers ran up and down Simon’s neck, stroking the short hairs at his nape. “I would have liked to get to know you under better circumstances, Simon.” 

“Yeah,” Simon whispered, “Me too.

* * *

 

Time was something Connor could always rely on knowing, but with the clock in his head reading wrong, all he could do was count the seconds and gauge the distance between events, and make assumptions based on that. He assumed that the androids being returned to the refrigerator happened between one and three in the morning, if the fights were being held during standard times. It was deeply uncomfortable not having the exact numbers, but it was better than having nothing at all. 

He and Simon sat together for hours, lapsing in and out of quiet conversation. It was hard to think of things to talk about, things that were safe to say in front of strangers, but sometimes silence was worse, because then all he could do was think. 

_ Hank _ . His name ran through his head over and over, an LED display made up of the worst possibilities. What if someone had waited until Hank got home so they could take him out, too? Maybe Sumo hadn’t stopped barking, so they’d silenced him. Worst of all was the idea that Hank thought Connor left of his own free will. It would be completely nonsensical, but when Hank was at his darkest, these were possibilities he blindly entertained, especially if he had help—the kind of help that came in a bottle. 

Eventually he forced himself to switch over to sleep mode like almost all the other androids in the fridge. It was better than preconstructing the dozens of ways these people might try and finish the job on Detective Guerrero. It wasn’t helping him or anyone else and the higher his stress levels got, the more inefficient his thirium pump became, consuming more than its fair share just to keep his systems in a state of hypervigilance. 

He was jerked out of sleep mode 12 hours later when the door to the fridge opened again. Outside stood eight armed guards, all with automatic weapons; the leader was in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright fluorescent light of the hallway. 

“Line up!” the leader barked, his voice echoing in the concrete room. 

Slowly, every android pushed themselves to their feet and lined up against the left wall. Some were still badly injured from the night before and struggled to make it that far. Those with missing or badly damaged limbs were helped by companions who avoided looking at them. Simon put a hand on Connor’s shoulder to guide him to his place against the wall. 

The leader walked in front of them, hand on his weapon. His eyes roamed over each of them with a predator’s gaze. He stopped in front of the sixth android in the row, a man whose leg was too mangled to self-repair, shattered plastic stuck out at jagged angles, the synthskin barely coming down past his thigh. With a nod, a guard was in the cell, his rifle slung across his back as he grabbed the android by his arm, dragging him from the room. The android still had his LED and it pulsed red. Simon had his hand on Connor’s arm, holding him back, before Connor even processed he was surging towards him. 

“Keep in line!” the leader shouted again. 

He repeated the process with three other mangled androids before they were finally left alone again, the door closing with a clang that echoed in Connor’s head. 

Simon took Connor by the arm and sat him down in their back corner, putting a hand on his shoulder. Simon’s face was twisted with pity and regret and Connor had to marvel at how wonderfully expressive he was for a basic household model. 

“They aren’t coming back, are they?” Connor asked. 

“Some of them might,” Simon replied, his voice low enough that only Connor could hear. “If they have comparable spare parts. Otherwise…” 

That the damaged androids would  _ become  _ spare parts hardly needed to be stated outright. It only made sense, after all. 

The android with the broken leg returned. The rest did not. He was in a reboot state when he was unceremoniously tossed back into the fridge. An AP700 grabbed him and dragged him away from the entrance, propping him up against the wall. 

“Everyone out!” The order came from the same leader as before. He was a broad man, but short, with squashed features and a round face. His skin was so pale that the ruddy flush on his cheeks and neck looked like a rash. 

Simon squeezed Connor’s hand before lining up at the door, gesturing for Connor to follow. 

They were marched along a narrow corridor with no windows. Connor absorbed as many details as possible. They passed three hallways before turning left, then right down another straight corridor. He counted 16 doors, but none that looked like emergency exits of any kind, and all either had keypad locks or old fashioned padlocks keeping them shut, all too large for even Connor, with his superior strength, to break through. 

Voices echoed down the corridor, growing louder the closer they got to the end. Hundreds of voices were talking over one another until it all harmonized into white noise. The stress levels of all the androids began to jump until no one rested below 70%. 

The doors at the end of the hall were pulled open from the other side and heat and sound from the far room hit Connor like a wet towel to the face. The room was an empty loading bay, their audience leaning over the railings of the raised concrete on the left and right sides while Connor and the others were marched down into the pit in the middle where trucks would have backed in. In the centre of the pit was a crude ring, a cage made up of tall metal fencing bolted to the ground. There was a single door with another padlock on it, and the fencing itself was dented and warped in places where bodies must have hit it too hard. The far end of the room had a massive garage door that was not only chained shut, but guarded by six, well armed men. A plan began to formulate in Connor’s head, but first he had to survive the night. 

Connor and the domestic units were lined up against the right wall and across from them stood the military and security units. None of them made eye contact with anyone across the room. 

A KR200 unit was grabbed by armed men from the right side, and from the left, a man and a woman pointed their weapons at a GJ500 in a torn tee-shirt, marching it into the cage. When both were inside, and the door locked, a man Connor did not recognize stepped in front of it, holding a microphone to his lips. He had on a canary yellow suit and walked with the confidence of an experienced showman. 

“Hello, Detroit!” he called out, waving his arm wildly at the crowd. The audience cheered in return, though Connor heard no joy in their response. Their calls were vicious, cruel... They were here for blood. 

“For our warm-up bout, we have a fresh caretaker model, though the unit probably should have been scrapped years ago.” This comment was met with some laughter and the man grinned wide, his white teeth flashing as he spun around to face the other side of the room. “Her opponent, the washed up security guard, who has been a regular in the ring for the last three months. However, his luck seems to have taken a turn for the worse recently. Let’s see if he can redeem himself tonight... or if he’ll get his ass kicked by a nanny bot.” 

Canary Yellow turned to the cage now, putting his fingers through the bars and rattling. “You two know the rules, but for the new faces joining us tonight: you fight until you can’t stand up anymore. The victor is the one left on two feet. There are no limits, but if you are caught initiating sleep mode, or we just plain don’t feel like you’re giving it your all, we can find other ways for you to entertain us.” Spotlights shone at the ceiling and Connor’s stress levels jumped another 10% when he saw what they were illuminating. 

47 androids, or their shells at any rate, dangled from the high ceiling. The white plastic of their bodies flashed in the harsh light. The message was clear: fight or die. 

There wasn’t an actual bell, but the speakers played the three tone chime and the fight began. 

At first, Connor assumed the fight would be weighted in the favour of the GJ500, but his reaction times were slow and if his sluggish movements were anything to go by, his balance was off as well. By comparison, the KR200 was fast and vicious, delivering rabbit quick blows and then hopping back out of the way before the GJ500 could react. Her strikes didn’t do much damage, but the GJ500 was already dead on his feet. The KR200 leapt in again, her palm striking the centre of the GJ500’s chest, right over his thirium pump. This time, however, he caught her wrist and dragged her close for a crushing bear hug. Connor heard plastic snap, but was unable to see what had been damaged and the KR200 slipped out of the hold, blue blood dripping down her side. 

The GJ500 ambled towards her and she feinted left before ramming her shoulder into his middle, knocking him off balance. Another palm strike to his middle and he was on his back. The KR200 was on him in an instant, her hand tearing at his shirt. Connor froze, realizing what she was going for just before the audience did and they erupted in a loud cheer. 

The GJ500 wrapped his legs around her middle and rolled on top of her, but not fast enough. She reached into his chest and yanked out his pump, slamming the end of it into his face. The GJ500’s grip loosened and the KR200 wiggled out from under him. Blue blood dripped down her arm from the damaged pump, and droplets spattered her face and chest. She crouched down on the ground and slammed the pump against the concrete, spraying blue blood over both her and the GJ500, who lay facedown on the ground, his arm reaching for her. 

With the pump destroyed, it was only a waiting game and the audience began to gleefully count down the seconds until the GJ500’s permanent shutdown. Connor shut his eyes and muted the volume. He didn’t need to hear this. He didn’t want to hear this. 

It was a mistake. It wasn’t until there was a hand gripping his arm and hauling him to his feet that Connor turned the sound back on. The thirium was being hosed off the concrete and the floor was wet and shiny with blue-tinted water. Connor wanted to pull away, but his legs nearly buckled as he tried to get his body to obey, a bright red flash in his head like agony but worse was his punishment. 

He fell to the ground as the pain receded and he was thrown into the cage. Pushing himself to his knees, a pair of booted feet came into his periphery. Then the gate shut behind him and the padlock clicked shut with a noise that seemed louder than the roar of the crowd. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be super honest, things only get worse from here on out. I do promise a happy ending though.


	4. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank returns to an empty house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry for the delay, updates are going to be coming slower now that I'm really in the middle of the Reverse Big Bang. I'm working on illustrations for two stories and then I'm also writing one so things are.... hectic. But I want to try and keep updating this every 2 weeks or so, it's just going to be a little inconsistent. 
> 
> Shell_and_Bone just crushed it getting this chapter edited for me tonight.

As soon as he got to work, Hank knew he should have stayed with Connor. He could have waited outside to give him and Guerrero their privacy and then surprised Connor when he came out to find him still waiting. Connor would have been annoyed with him for skipping work on his account, but it would have been the right thing to do—even if he would have to endure lectures from both Connor and Fowler over it. 

He tried to get some work done; he answered all his pending emails and reviewed the final lab report from his and Connor’s last case. It took him almost forty minutes to read instead of ten because he kept finding himself re-reading the same line over and over again without actually absorbing any of it. 

Two hours into his shift, he shut down his terminal in disgust. Fuck it, Connor needed him, even if the stubborn little shit wouldn’t admit it. He was halfway to Fowler’s office to beg the rest of the day off, ready to claim a migraine, or hell even intoxication if need be—despite the write-up that would certainly earn him—when he made eye contact with Gavin Reed. He cursed under his breath as Gavin made a beeline for him, his mouth twisted in a self-satisfied smirk. 

“The hell do you want, Reed?” Hank growled, glancing impatiently at Fowler’s office. He could see the Captain hunched over his desk, but knowing Fowler, he’d only be there so long—the man had a bad habit of getting too hands-on when he started to miss the field and it made him a bitch and a half to find. 

“The convenience store case,” said Reed, his voice high with false innocence. 

“What about it?” 

Reed was looking far too cheerful for someone with such a punchable face. “It’s not an android, just someone pretending to be one to throw us off.” 

“So what are you bothering me for?” Hank crossed his arms, shifting his weight, his fingers tapping an anxious beat on his bicep. Fowler was standing up, and if Reed didn’t get to the point soon, Hank may actually strangle the little bastard. 

“Heard your partner went off the rails yesterday. Came to offer my condolences,” said Reed in a voice that was anything but condoling. 

“And how is that any of your goddamn business?” Hank snapped, just about ready to shove right past him. 

“I’m allowed to be concerned, Anderson,” said Reed, his mouth split wide open and showing all his teeth. Hank had a mind to knock a few of them loose; punching Reed would probably guarantee getting sent home for the day. “If even  _ you _ can’t control him, what hope to the rest of us have? Besides, it’s a bad example for the rest of the plastics, might give them ideas, you know?” Reed gestured to the department’s RK900 unit currently sitting with Tina. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Hank, grabbing Reed by the collar and dragging him in close. “Any excuse to get rid of the competition, right? You’re all worried because Connor’s ten times the detective you’ll ever be.” Hank let go of Reed’s shirt, shoving him back. 

Reed’s eyes went wide for a moment until he regained his balance, then his arrogant smirk returned. “So what, guess that makes you pretty much obsolete then? Unless your dick is the only thing that was keeping him in line. What’s the matter, old man? Couldn’t get it up so your little boyfriend went on a rampage?” 

Reed was damn lucky Hank had pushed him back, otherwise he would have been within arm’s reach when the cold fury hit. 

“You wanna watch your fucking mouth?” Hank seethed through his teeth. 

“We’ve all see the way he follows you around,” Reed sneered. “It might actually be too pathetic if you aren’t fucking him, seeing how he’s practically gagging for it—“ 

Whatever else Reed was going to say was cut short when Hank slammed him up against an office divider. It shook and shuddered at the weight, but didn’t topple. “You say whatever the fuck you want about me, but you so much as utter another word about Connor and you’ll spend the rest of your life drinking your meals through a straw.” Hank raised his fist to emphasize his point. 

“Anderson! Reed!” barked Fowler, the door to his office thrown open. 

Reed raised his hands in surrender, but Hank didn’t back down, his fist still twisted in the fabric of Reed’s shirt. Reed looked as if he might say something, and Fowler or no Fowler, if he said shit about Connor, Hank was going to make good on his threat. 

“Anderson! Stand down!” Fowler repeated, coming down the stairs to grab Hank’s shoulder, pulling him off of Reed. 

This time Hank did let go, cursing and shooting Reed a dirty look. Reed just looked smug, smoothing out his jacket with exaggerated showmanship. 

“Get the fuck out of here, Reed,” Fowler ordered. 

Reed’s cocky posturing slipped for a moment, surprise clear on his face, but he soon regained his swagger, giving Hank a little wave as he made his way back to his desk. 

Hank turned to Fowler, letting out a heavy sigh. He opened his mouth to apologize, not that it would be particularly sincere, but he had some brown nosing to do if he wanted—

“Go home, Hank.” 

“Excuse me?” Hank asked, sure he misheard. 

Fowler shrugged, sighing into his hand. “You’re no use to anyone right now. Go look after your partner.” It was the closest Jeff had ever come to acknowledging his relationship with Connor and it had Hank simultaneously nervous and grateful. “I’m going to assume you’re not coming in tomorrow either, unless you call me to say otherwise, okay?” 

Hank frowned, eyes narrowing. “What’s the catch?” 

“The catch is we’ve been friends for over twenty years and I’m worried about you,” said Fowler, putting a hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Also would it kill you to be a little more subtle? I do not need IA breathing down my neck over what you may or may not be doing after hours and I would love to have some plausible deniability.” 

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” said Hank, giving Fowler a weak grin. 

“Good man,” said Fowler, slapping Hank’s shoulder. “Now get the hell out of my precinct.”

* * *

 

The drive home was the same length as it always was, but somehow it felt longer. Hank shot Connor a text while sitting at a light, and frowned when he didn’t hear a familiar ping in return. Connor never took longer than a few minutes to respond to a text, even if it was just to say, “busy now, talk later.” If Hank drove a little faster than Connor would approve of after the silence stretched on too long, well, Connor wasn’t there to tell him off. 

There was no reason to think anything was wrong, but still, something felt off as Hank pulled into the driveway. Likely his own paranoia. Connor’s entire life had turned into a living nightmare these past few days, so maybe he wanted to leave Hank on ‘read’. Who was he to judge? He’d done it to Connor enough times himself. 

Then he heard it. Sumo was muffled by the walls and insulated windows, but he was barking furiously, loud and insistent. Hank jammed his hand into his pocket, fumbling with his keys and dropping them twice before he got the door open. 

Sumo didn’t bowl him over. In fact Sumo was nowhere to be seen, though his frantic barking echoed down the hallway. Hank barely took the time to kick the door shut before he was dashing off in Sumo’s direction, his boots thudding along the hall. 

“Connor!” Hank called, throwing the bedroom door open. 

Sumo nearly knocked him over, shooting off towards the living room faster than Hank could grab him. A cursory glance made it plain the bedroom was empty so Hank turned around, following Sumo. 

“Connor!” he tried again, louder this time. He pulled out his phone and dialed Connor, wedging his between his ear and his shoulder. 

Sumo was leaping at the front door, hard enough that his blunt claws were leaving faint scratch marks against the paint. His barking hadn’t abated, though now it was punctuated with desperate whines. Hank crouched down, taking Sumo by the scruff of his neck and dragging him off the door. 

After what felt like an eternity, his call connected. And then it went straight to voicemail. 

_ “Hello, you’ve reached Detective Connor with the DPD. I am unable to take your call at the moment, but please leave your name and a short message and I will return your call as soon as I am available. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911.”  _

When the tone beeped at him, it took Hank a moment to remember what he was supposed to be doing. His mind raced a thousand miles a second, but he couldn’t hold onto any of his thoughts. Panic twisted his gut in tight knots and when he finally remembered to breathe, his lungs ached. 

Hank sunk down to the floor, back pressed against the wall. Sumo climbed all over him, snuffling at his cheeks, pressing his nose against Hank’s mouth, as if Hank could tell him where his favourite housemate had gone. 

“Connor, where the fuck are you? Sumo’s losing his damn mind. Call me back.” 

He hung up and the phone shook in his hand. No, his hand was trembling. Something was very fucking wrong. If it were just a case of Connor still being out then maybe this could wait, but they hadn’t locked Sumo in the bedroom this morning. Connor had been here, Hank was sure of it. 

He called Ben next, who he knew was stuck on the late shift this week. 

“This is Detective Collins.” 

“Ben, thank Christ. Are you still at the station?” asked Hank, almost breathless with relief. 

“Yeah, I’m stuck here until 10. I thought you were supposed to be on, too. Where are you?” Hank could practically hear him leaning back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his bulk as he propped his leg up on the edge of his garbage can. 

“Got sent home, not important,” Hank said, waving his hand, which only served to draw Sumo’s attention. Sumo managed to give Hank’s fingers a single, slobbery lick before Hank shoved him away. 

“Sounds pretty damn important to me. You in trouble? How’s Connor holding up?” 

“Connor! Have you seen him? He’s not at the station, is he?” Hank winced, realizing he was practically shouting. 

“No? I haven’t seen him all day. He’s suspended right now, isn’t he?” 

Hank’s stomach dropped. He should never have left him alone. How fucking stupid could they have been? Of course Connor would be in danger. They’d all been so wrapped up in Guerrero, they’d forgotten all about yesterday’s other victim. Christ, what if they wanted to finish the job on Guerrero, too? 

“—ank? Hank? You still there?” 

Hank blinked, shaking his head. “We’ve got a big fucking problem on our hands, Ben. I need you to dispatch the nearest officers to Detective Guerrero’s hospital room and have them stay on her. I’m coming back to the precinct.” 

“Alright, but—“ 

“I’ll explain when I get there.” 

Hank hung up before Ben could object again. Whatever protests the detective had, he wouldn't go back on his word. In the meantime, he dialed another number. He was barely able to balance the phone against his ear while getting out the front door, not while Sumo was desperately trying to squeeze past him, as if Connor would be waiting in the front yard if he could just make it another few feet. 

“Sumo,  _ stay _ !” 

“Detective Anderson? Is everything alright?” Markus asked, clearly baffled by the shuffling and barking on Hank’s side of the line. 

“Shit, Markus, hang on.” Hank shoved Sumo back inside and slammed the door behind him. His keys jangled in his hand. 

“Detective Anderson, I am extremely busy—“ 

“It’s Connor,” Hank said, locking his door and jogging to the car. 

“What about him?” Markus asked, his voice distant and wary. 

“I think something might have happened, have you seen him? Do you think he might have gone anywhere?” 

Keys in the ignition, Hank put his phone on speaker and tossed it onto the passenger seat. 

“No, I haven't seen him since yesterday,” said Markus. 

“Okay,” said Hank, more to himself than to Markus. “Okay.” He took a deep, steadying breath, and then another, and another. At least going back into the city at five meant he got to skip the worst of the traffic, but even so, the universe seemed determined to give him as many red lights as it could manage. 

“If that’s all…” 

“Connor’s missing,” Hank growled. “What about that don’t you get? I thought you were all about helping androids and shit like that. Connor’s an android, saved your little revolution, didn’t he?” 

“Detective Anderson, I can hear you’re upset—“ 

“What did you tell him?” 

“I’m sure it’s all in Connor’s report,” Markus replied, irritation creeping into his tone. 

“Look, anything, anything that might point us in a direction,” Hank pleaded. 

“I told him none of the androids from the reports had come through Jericho,” said Markus. “I’ll ask my people to keep a look out, but I don’t know how much more I can do.” 

“Listen asshole, you owe him!” Hank shouted, slamming on his brakes as he hit yet another red light. The car behind him honked furiously and Hank flipped him off. “Looking for him probably means finding the other androids, too. Or is your android rights thing all talk?” 

“I’ll let the DPD know if we hear anything,” said Markus, his tone icy. “Goodbye, detective.”

“Markus wait—“ But Markus had already hung up. Hank slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “FUCK!”

* * *

 

When Hank finally arrived at DPD Central, his heart was slamming against his chest like a rubber ball, hard enough that nausea was beginning to swell in his throat. Ben spotted him first, standing up and rushing over to put a hand on his arm, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Hank, I should warn you—“ Whatever Ben was going to say was cut off when Fowler leaned out of his office. 

“Anderson!” Fowler shouted. “Get the fuck in here.” 

It was Fowler’s expression more than his volume that had Hank taking an unconscious step back. He hadn’t seen his friend’s face twisted in fury like that in a year, not since the last time Hank had shown up to work visibly drunk and reeking of spilled beer. He was damn lucky he hadn’t lost his job. 

Hank hurried to the office and shut the door behind him. Fowler had not sat back down. Instead, he leaned over his desk, palms flat on the glass. 

“How dare you do this to me,” Fowler seethed, glaring up at Hank. “How fucking dare you put me in this position, after everything I’ve done for you, covering for your ass, making accommodations for Connor, covering  _ his  _ ass when you can’t keep your fucking hands to yourself—“ 

“What the fuck?” Hank snapped, folding his arms over his chest. “What am I supposed to have done?” 

“I don’t care who your partner is, you don’t get to harass the leader of the goddamn android rights movement. Do you have any idea how this looks? Or what kind of scrutiny you’re going to put yourself under if the public catches wind?” 

“Now wait just a goddamn minute,” Hank retorted, slamming his hand on Fowler’s desk so hard his pens shuddered in their mug. “Connor’s missing. I’m not harassing him. I’m trying to find a fellow officer who may be in serious danger because of a case YOU put him on.” 

“Markus called me, personally, to report your inappropriate behaviour. I can’t fucking do this, Hank—“ 

“What about Connor? Do you care that he’s missing, or is he still just a machine to you?” 

“You know damn well that’s not true, so don’t even start with me,” Fowler snapped, glaring up at Hank. “You’re out of line and you’re suspended, and trust me when I say, if you fuck up like this again, I will fire your ass to save public relations for the DPD.” 

Hank opened his mouth to object, to plead, to do  _ something _ , but Fowler cut him off. “It’s been four hours, Hank. Connor’s not missing. He probably went to the goddamn store. Yesterday fucked you up worse than I thought and I should have seen that, I’m sorry, but I need you to hand over your badge and check your service weapon in the equipment room.” 

“You can’t do this to me right now, Jeff,” said Hank, his voice thin as his chest constricted around his lungs. Connor  _ needed _ him. 

“I want you to go home, get some sleep, and I’ll call you in a few days.” Fowler was quieter than before, almost sad. 

Hank pulled his service weapon out of its holster and his badge from his pocket, placing them on the table. “You can take them to the equipment room your damn self.” 

Hank stormed out of the office, seething. He marched down the steps and was making a beeline for the stairwell when Ben caught his arm. 

“I’m so sorry. I tried to talk him down.” 

Hank shrugged off the hand, but guilt tugged at his chest so he turned and offered Ben a tight smile. 

“About Connor... I  _ know _ him, he wouldn’t go dark like this. He was looking into some sketchy shit and…” Hank had to stop to breathe. His throat hurt, and he was afraid if he kept talking his voice would crack. 

“I’ll look into it, okay? I believe you,” said Ben, his smile more genuine than Hank’s. “He’s a good kid.” 

Hank nodded, swallowing hard. Ben seemed to get the message because he gave Hank a quick pat on the arm before trundling back to his desk. 

Hank fled down the stairwell to the parkade. There was still a dark bloodstain on the concrete where Guerrero had lain. 

He got in his car and pulled out of the lot fast enough that his tires squeaked as he took the corner too sharp. He got about four blocks from the station before he had to pull over. He pulled up beside a dumpster and rested his head on the steering wheel, his shoulders heaving as he sucked in great gulps of air that made his tight lungs ache. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, and then louder, “Fuck!” 

He slammed his hand on the steering wheel, the heel of his palm clipping the horn and scaring the shit out of an alley cat, who hissed and spat in his direction before scampering away. 

His throat hurt like he’d been crying, but his eyes were dry. Instead, it was like his throat was being crushed and every breath stretched it too wide. His head spun when he sat back up, tilting his head back as he tried to breathe through his nose. 

Connor had been so scared yesterday, when Hank had gathered him up in his arms, covered in Guerrero’s blood. There was no way in hell he’d just gotten over that, and Hank had left him just because he hadn’t wanted to rock the boat with Fowler. Stupid, selfish. 

Guerrero. Shit. 

Hank started the car and pealed out of the alley.

* * *

 

He was probably going to get a ticket, he thought, as he raced to the elevator; he hadn’t bothered stopping to pay for parking. It seemed to take an age to reach Guerrero’s floor and every second he was delayed was another second he could be too late. He hurried down the hall, narrowly avoiding bowling over a nurse as he skidded to a halt in front of Guerrero’s room. 

The door was open and laughter echoed from inside. 

“—the worst taste,” came Guerrero’s voice. 

“You’re just heartless,” came the teasing reply, this voice lower, masculine. 

Hank peered around the corner, knocking on the wall. “Detective Guerrero?” 

Guerrero was sitting up in bed, an e-reader on her knee. A man sat in the chair at her bedside, his hand over hers. He had curly brown hair, a round face, and a wispy goatee. His grin was wide and bright. 

“Lieutenant Anderson!” Guerrero called. “Come in. This is my boyfriend, Jones. Jones, this is Lieutenant Anderson.” 

Jones stood and extended his hand. He was shorter than Hank’s initial estimation, maybe only five foot four, but he was stocky and sturdily built. Hank took his hand and shook it once before turning to Guerrero. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but—“ 

“Did something happen?” she asked, her voice low with concern. “A couple officers popped by earlier to check in. I thought it was just because of what happened, but—“ 

“Connor’s gone missing,” Hank managed to say without his voice breaking. “Thought you might be a target as well.” 

Jones stepped back, his hand coming to rest on Guerrero’s arm. 

“What happened to Connor?” Guerrero demanded. She sat up straighter, but winced as it pulled at one of her numerous injuries. Jones helped her back down with a gentle hand on her back. 

“I don’t know,” Hank admitted, running a hand over his face. “I got home early ‘cause I was worried about him. Found the dog locked in the bedroom and Connor nowhere to be found. Calling him does no good. He won’t—or more likely can’t—respond.” 

“And you think this was foul play. I mean, he could have just gone for a walk?” Jones suggested, a slight frown creasing his brow. 

Guerrero put a hand over his and gave it a small squeeze. “Babe, do you think you could grab me a coffee?” 

Jones shrugged, his expression gone sheepish. He rubbed the back of his neck, heading for the door. “Y-yeah, sorry. You need anything, Lieutenant?” 

Hank shook his head. 

“Thanks, love,” said Guerrero, watching him go. She gestured to his empty seat. “Okay sit.” 

Hank obeyed. It wasn’t until he was off his feet that he realized how shaken he was, how close he was to collapsing. He rested his head in his hands, running fingers through his tangled hair. 

“You think this has something to do with the case?” Guerrero pressed. Hank was grateful she wasn’t bothering with niceties. 

“It makes sense. They hacked him to get to you, but if our techs actually bothered to get their heads out of their asses, they might have been able to trace that back to someone.” 

Guerrero nodded, grimacing; it looked even more gruesome with her battered face. “This is my fault.” 

“The hell it is,” Hank snapped, surprising even himself. 

“If I hadn’t come to Connor for help—“ 

“There’s no point thinking about that. We don’t have time, besides.” Hank sat upright, folding his arms across his chest. “I need everything you have on this case. I know it’s against regulations, but—“ 

Guerrero already had her phone out. “Sent!” Hank’s phone buzzed in his pocket. 

Hank sighed. “Look, you should know I was just suspended.” 

Guerrero stiffened in her bed. “Oh fuck, did they find out about you and Connor?” 

Hank jerked back in surprise. “What? No. I caused a diplomatic incident with Jericho, might have called Markus an asshole when he was less than helpful about this.” Hank rubbed the back of his neck, then froze. “What do you mean, ‘me and Connor’.” 

“Connor told me about you two. Well, I guessed and he filled in the blanks.” Her grisly smile was, Hank assumed, supposed to be supportive. 

Hank swallowed. The floor was a speckled white linoleum with green veins running through the tiles. “I need to find him. I need to know he’s okay.” 

“I’ll help,” Guerrero said, hissing as she sat up. She got her legs over the side of the bed when Hank put a hand on her shoulder. 

“No way. You’re still pretty fucked up. Connor would kick my ass if I let you screw up your healing process doing something stupid like that.” He eased her back into bed and she reluctantly let him. 

She reached for his arm, gripping it hard enough to hurt. “If you need anything—“ 

“I know where to find you.” Hank nodded. “Thank you for the case files.” He started towards the door and then paused in the frame, his hand on the wall. “Stay safe, detective.” 

“Find him,” she replied. “Bring him back.”

* * *

 

The house felt wrong. Nothing had been moved, there was no sign of a struggle, hell, the door had even been locked, but Connor was gone and the house had never felt so empty. 

When Hank got home, he found Sumo half under the couch, snuffling pitifully. He’d also pissed on the kitchen floor. Hank hardly had it in him to tell him off, even as he knelt down with a handful of rags and a bottle of disinfectant to clean it up. Once he had everything thrown in the washing machine, he fed Sumo, almost two hours early, but the poor little bastard was probably stressed out of his mind. He figured food would take his mind off of it. It didn’t. Sumo sniffed disinterestedly at the dish and then flopped under the kitchen table at Hank’s feet. 

Every half hour or so, Sumo would get up and sniff the front door, whine at Hank, and then lay back down. Hank rubbed Sumo’s gut with his foot, mumbling soothing nonsense under his breath. His laptop open, he scanned Guerrero’s case files over and over, searching for something, anything, that might point him in the right direction. It was a near impossible task, made more difficult by his wandering mind that had him re-reading paragraphs for ten minutes at a time until his frantic mind finally parsed them. 

He needed a drink.

“Fuck!” Hank cursed, slamming his palm down hard enough that Sumo leapt to his feet, bashing his head on the underside of the table. Sumo yelped and shoved his face into Hank’s lap, stringy drool soaking through his sweatpants. Hank leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through the soft fur behind Sumo’s ears. 

“Sorry, boy,” he mumbled. His eyes stung, and whether it was exhaustion or emotion, he could hardly tell. The clock on the microwave read 10:48 PM and he was only through four of the cases, his distracted mind scattered and useless. The irony that Connor would be about a thousand times better at this than him was not lost on him. When it came to parsing pure data, Connor had humans beat any day. 

_ Connor _ . Sumo looked up at Hank with sad, droopy eyes, and Hank bent low so he could press his forehead to Sumo’s. 

“We’re going to get him back,” he promised. 

Reading was doing him no good. He pulled up all the image files, most of them stills of grainy security footage taken from CCTV cameras at the estimated time of the disappearances. None of the androids had been taken on camera, but Hank scanned for repeated faces, cars, anything. There were hundreds of stills; if Guererro was anything, she was thorough… and tenacious. 

If he could just see these all side by side, rather than one at a time on his dinky laptop screen, he might actually be able to get somewhere. He wondered if Fowler had bothered revoking his keycard access. If he could get access to one of the briefing rooms, he could use the projectors and the wall screens. 

It was late, so there’d be no traffic and getting to the station would be a breeze, especially since he was willing to bend a few traffic laws. Fuck it. Hank stood and Sumo scrambled upright, at Hank’s side in an instant. 

“You wanna go for a car ride?”

* * *

 

Fowler knew Hank way too fucking well. Hank found himself locked out of the parking lot and had to circle the block until he found an empty spot. He had the same problem at the front desk, with the sweet android secretary informing him that his pass was currently suspended, oh, and that there were no dogs allowed on the premises other than working dogs. 

Hank, before he’d met Connor, likely would have cursed and sworn right in front of her, but he knew better now, knew it wasn’t her fault, so instead he tugged on Sumo’s lead and took him back outside where they stood—Hank with his arms crossed over his chest—at the bottom of the steps, freezing their asses off in the chill night air. 

There was a good chance Fowler was fast asleep in his bed, which would make calling him to yell even more cathartic. But more likely, Fowler would see Hank’s name, shut his phone off, and ignore him until morning. 

“Lieutenant Anderson?” 

Hank spun on his heel, that voice so achingly familiar that even Sumo perked up, tugging at his leash to get to the approaching RK900. 

“Hey,” Hank replied, deflating at the sight of the white jacket. 

“I saw you tried to get in,” the RK900 explained. Nines, Hank’s memory supplied. The department had nicknamed him when he’d expressed difficulty in choosing a name for himself. They certainly weren’t going to call him ‘Not-Connor’ forever. 

Hank shrugged. “I’m suspended.” 

“I know.” 

Nines stood one step higher than Hank, and with his already significant height, he towered over him. He reminded Hank a little of Connor when they first met, painfully awkward, but eager to please. 

Nines crouched, extending his hand to Sumo for the dog to sniff. A shy smile curled his lips when Sumo licked his fingers. Nines took that as permission and Sumo didn’t hesitate to accept the gentle pets. 

“He’s a good boy, isn’t he?” Nines asked, though he looked at Sumo rather than at Hank when he spoke. 

“Y-yeah…” 

It ached, watching Nines with his dog, though it was hardly the guy’s fault that he looked exactly like Connor, and Hank wasn’t enough of an asshole to yank Sumo away because of it. 

When Nines stood up, Hank opened his mouth to say goodnight but instead Nines said, “I heard you think Connor might be missing?” 

“Well he’s sure as fuck not here, is he?” Hank snapped. 

Nines bowed his head, shifting in place. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he really meant it. “I know it’s not official but, you know him better than anyone. I trust your instincts.” 

Hank’s heart jumped in his throat, and for the first time that night, there was something like hope in him. “Yeah?”

Nines leaned closer and his voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “I’d like to help. Meet met at the garage in five minutes?” 

Hank swallowed and nodded, not trusting his voice. Nines took off back into the building and Hank trotted around the side. He considered taking Sumo back to the car, but he didn’t have the heart to leave him there tonight, and besides, the last thing he needed was to clean piss out of the back seat if Sumo got stressed. 

Nines was good on his word and the garage door slid open as soon as Hank arrived. He glanced up at the cameras, but Nines shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“I need access to one of the briefing rooms,” Hank told him once they were in the elevator. 

“I assume you’ve got access to Detective Guerrero’s case files,” Nines replied. The elevator pinged open and Nines peered out into the bullpen before allowing Hank out. 

Hank waited until they were safely behind the closed door of briefing room three and the windows had been darkened for privacy before demanding, “How did you know about that?” Sumo trotted the perimeter before settling under the long conference table. 

Nines shifted in place, his LED cycling yellow. “I make a habit of following my predecessor’s cases.” 

Hank’s eyebrows shot up. “I see.” 

Nines turned away and booted up the wall screens. Hank connected his laptop and threw up the images one at a time, sorting them by case. Nines came to stand beside him, hands clasped behind his perfectly straight back. 

“You sticking around?” Hank asked. 

Nines ducked his head. “I meant what I said. I want to help, if that’s alright.” 

“Y-yeah, thanks,” he said, frowning. “Here, I could use some help parsing the case files for similarities. Do you mind…” Hank gestured to his laptop. 

Nines smiled at him, tilting his head. “Of course, Lieutenant.” 

With Nines occupied sorting through the reports, Hank was free to work through the stills. He was right--it was going to be much easier working like this. He was reminded of the red string and push-pin cork boards that featured in the detective movies of his childhood, though by the time he’d made detective, only the truly ancient still used printed images, digital being much more efficient and environmentally friendly. 

The room was dark but for the glow of the screen. Hank’s eyes strained and he cursed not getting reading glasses like Connor had suggested dozens of times, even going so far as to passive aggressively leave mail order websites open for Hank to peruse frames. It lit the both of them in an eerie blue glow, making Nines appear sharp and inhuman. Hank tore his gaze away and back to the screens. 

“There!” Hank called, pointing to the edge of a truck, the beginnings of a logo just barely visible. “Does that look familiar to you?” 

Nines’ head jerked up, his LED spinning yellow for a moment. “That’s Cyberlife branding.” Nines stood, eyes darting across the screen faster than any human would be able to read. He pointed at another image, bringing it up and enlarging. 

The photo was grainy as it was a night-time image, but the truck was the same colour, or close enough given the shifting light, and there was the corner of a logo just visible. With renewed purpose, they scanned the remaining crime scenes, finding the edges of similar looking trucks in another four of them. It wasn’t until they got to the stills for the AP400, Ivan, when they finally got a license plate on screen. 

“That truck is not registered to Cyberlife,” Nines said, LED spinning yellow again. “Those plates are registered to a Richard Kelley, a resident at the Shady Oaks nursing home. His vehicle is a Toyota Camry.” 

“They haven’t been reported?” Normally, if plates were stolen, the AI running CCTV would catch them and automatically send a squad car. 

“His car appears to still be registered with his old residence. His children never cancelled the automatic payments on his insurance and the car is likely still parked in his garage.” 

Dread crept up Hank’s throat. He sunk into an office chair and Sumo was at his side in a second, nose snuffling at his knee. Hank’s hand absentmindedly found Sumo’s ear. 

“I’ll look into the children as possible culprits, but it’s more likely this was a stranger with access to DMV records,” Nines continued. 

“Can you pull up traffic cam for the Michigan and Eighth intersection? Start from today at noon and scan until 6pm.” 

It was three tense minutes before Nines looked at him again, nodding. “I’ve got a positive ID on the truck, caught at the intersection at 3:46 this afternoon.” 

Hank swallowed, his hand tightening in Sumo’s fur. 

“Can you follow it?” 

Nines paused, his head tilting in a way that was so much like Connor that Hank’s throat tightened. 

“I can try. It will take me some time, though. You should go home and get some sleep. I hope it’s not rude of me to say, but you look unwell.” 

Hank nodded. “Yeah, I’m not doing so hot.” He ran clammy hands through his hair, but made no move to get up. 

Nines took a seat beside him. His hand hovered over Hank’s arm long enough that it started to feel a bit weird before it descended to clasp his forearm in a gentle grip. Hank received what felt like a carefully calibrated squeeze. 

“I’m going to do everything I can,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “There’s nothing else you can do here, Hank.” 

“Why are you helping me? I mean, shit, Fowler won’t even admit Connor might be missing. You could get into a hell of a lot of trouble misusing department resources.” 

The hand on his forearm tightened. “Connor is… I admire him very much. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be able to work here, to do what I was made to do... The only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.” 

“You look up to him?” 

“We haven’t spoken much, but he’s always been kind to me, as much of a mentor as anyone with only a year’s extra experience can be.” 

Understanding dawned. “You care about him too, huh?” 

The corner of Nines’ mouth twitched up, almost imperceptibly in the gloom. “I don’t know if it’s quite the same way that you do, but I can see some similarities.” 

“I can’t just sit on my ass.” 

“You’re no good to anyone here, Lieutenant. You’ll just cause trouble if you’re spotted and you’ll be useless if you don’t sleep.” 

Harsh words knocked the air from Hank’s lungs. “Tell me how you really feel,” he chuckled, leaning back in his seat, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

“I think I just did.” 

A hand settled on Hank’s shoulder and when he uncovered his eyes, he found Nines bent low to meet his gaze. “I promise. If I find anything, you’ll be the first person to know, but for now, I need you to leave so I can work.” 

Shame curled hot and tight in Hank’s gut, but no amount of whining or shouting or digging in his heels was going to change the fact that Nines was right. 

“Okay,” he said, rising to his feet. “Okay.” 

Hank nearly yelped in surprise when arms circled around his middle and Nines’ chin came to rest on his shoulder. The hug was stiff and awkward, over almost as soon as it had begun--the poor kid needed practice, that was for damn certain--but Hank appreciated the sentiment, as strange as it was. 

“Thank you,” said Nines. 

Hank swallowed the lump in his throat, but didn’t trust himself to respond. He patted Nines’ shoulder on the way out the door, whistling for Sumo. All the way to the elevator, he felt those cool eyes on his back, though their gaze seemed much warmer than it ever had before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for everyone who was worried about Connor! I promise we get back to him next chapter.


End file.
